9

 

Her horse lurched to the side of the trail, then righted himself. He lurched again, favoring his right hind leg. Isabel dismounted and ran her hand down his leg. No hot spots.

“What is it?” Alexandre called out.

“Something is wrong with his leg.” She picked up the hoof. The iron horseshoe seemed sound enough. She felt underneath, along the calloused pad at the base of the hoof, and dislodged a sharp stone. The muscles in Hardwin’s hindquarters bunched, then went still as she let go.

“A stone.” Isabel’s hands fisted at her sides. “No doubt because of your carelessness earlier.” She wanted to hit him. It was his fault, this…everything.

Alexandre gave Hardwin a long look. “He seems fine to me now.”

That was true enough, but she well knew how a minor injury could turn into something far worse. “I will not risk lameness by riding him the rest of the way.”

“Surely it is not that serious.”

She nearly stamped her foot. “I said I will not risk it.”

He looked like he would argue with her but shook his head. “Very well. My mount can carry both of us.”

Oh yes, he would like that. Having her cling to him all the way back to the castle. She pushed her hair out of her face. “I will walk.”

“I cannot leave you out here alone. Look at the sky. More snow, I warrant.” She followed Alexandre’s gaze and frowned at the sight of the setting sun almost overtaken by gray clouds. He drew his horse closer to her. “I doubt we will make it back to the castle before it hits.”

“That matters not to me, but if the weather conditions are not to your liking, you are welcome to ride ahead.”

His shoulders drew back. “I am at your service.” He dropped to the ground.

“That will not be necessary.” She took her horse’s reins and tugged him along, telling herself it did not matter if Hardwin was not favoring his leg anymore. “We will be fine on our own.”

Alexandre chuckled, the sound echoing forlornly in the empty woods, and followed her. “That may be, but you are still my responsibility.” He looked around. “Is there a tenant nearby we can shelter with?”

“Non. But even if there were, I would not have you bully them into offering us hospitality. I refuse to subject my people to the likes of you.”

She thought she saw a flash of disappointment in his eyes but must have imagined it, as his arrogant features hardened once more. “Then what do you suggest, my lady?” A sharpness that was not there before edged his tone.

She looked to the sky for strength and led her horse onward.

“Where are we going?” Alexandre called after her.

She did not bother to answer, knowing he had no choice but to follow.

After pushing their way down an overgrown trail, they emerged onto the road connecting Ashdown to Hereford to the north. She pulled her cloak closer to her frame. “Stay alert. The roads can be dangereux.”

His answering grunt was lost as the wind picked up, bringing with it a chill that cut through her cloak.

The road was a dirt track, more mud than snow, barely wide enough for a team of four horses to travel unhindered. They trudged along in the muck for a long while before it began to sleet. Just when she was about to lose hope, she saw the old tree stump marking the little side trail she had been looking for.

They led the horses off the road and into the shadow of forest. It took longer than she liked to get her bearings in the gloom. She stopped once, wondering if she had blundered off the trail. It had been years since she had had reason to be here. After a frantic moment, she resumed walking, Alexandre following silently.

She was grateful he made no comment at her indecision. He was probably exhausted. He still wore chain mail from the battle. The heavy metal links would wear down even the sturdiest of frames after so long. Her father always claimed mail was the worst part about warfare.

Her foot finally struck stone. “We are here.”

Alexandre looked where she pointed—at a small crevice in a wall of stone too small and shallow to be considered a cave. But the overhang was enough to provide them cover from the sleet now streaming down.

Alexandre looped the reins of the horses on a low hanging tree branch, and grabbed their saddlebags. Isabel sat and shifted back until she fitted her spine against the cold rock.

“How did you learn of this place?” The tinkle of metal links echoed off the stone as Alexandre struggled out of his mail.

She closed her eyes to ease the pressure building there. She had been seven, young and foolish and full of grief in the wake of her mother’s passing. “My father said something careless when I was younger, so I ran away. It grew dark, and I found this place to pass the night.”

“Headstrong, even as a child, no?” Alexandre settled down next to her, placing his mail on the opposite side so it would not rust further. He rummaged around in his bag and pulled out flint and tender. “I will start a fire.”

Isabel tugged him back and then folded her hands in her lap. “Non. We are still too close to the road. We do not want to attract attention.”

“But you must be freezing.” He rested a heavy hand on her shoulder. Tendrils of warmth sank through the wool of her cloak. “Come now. You are shivering.”

“Pray do not trouble yourself with me.” She pulled away from his touch.

He crossed his arms and leaned back. “No fire. I suppose it is too much to ask for something to eat on a night such as this.”

“Perhaps not.” Isabel pulled her saddlebag close and fished around inside. “Ah.” She pulled out a stale loaf of bread and wedge of hard cheese. She had had no way of knowing how long they would battle with the Welsh, and had packed provisions just in case.

Alexandre watched her carefully as she used her seax to slice the bread and cheese. She moved to sheath it, but he caught her wrist and peered down at the dull glint of the knife. “An English blade, if I recall. Why do you wear it?”

She tugged her hand from his grasp and slid the seax into her sheath. “It was passed down through my mother’s family.”

“Same with these?” Alexandre reached out and fingered the golden brooches on her shoulders. “Most of Harold’s housecarls wore similar gold bands and bracelets at Hastings.”

She looked down at his hand and counted her breaths until it fell away. “Yes.”

“You are very proud of your English background.”

She could not tell if there was implicit censure in the comment or not. She sniffed. “I try to honor the heritage of both my father and my mother.”

Alexandre watched her with a thoughtful expression. “I was told your lady mother was an Englishwoman of some standing.”

“Yes,” she said through gritted teeth. The Norman was surprisingly well-informed. Matilde’s doing, no doubt. “She was a distant cousin of Earl Godwin. When King Edward brought his Norman entourage to England, my father met my mother, Alvina of Wessex, at court. After they married, he was able to stay in England even though many of Edward’s Norman advisors were exiled.”

He nodded and took the bread and cheese she proffered. “And Lord Dumont has made a name for himself here with his cavalry training to help defend the border against the Welsh.”

“Yes. Decades of bloodshed have done naught to quell the bitterness between Wales and England, and raids are all too common—even when Gruffydd ruled. But thanks to my father’s efforts, and that of FitzOsbern in Hereford, the local thanes have learned to repel them.”

“I must say I was impressed with your father’s men today.”

“They have been well trained.” She swallowed, her throat working hard to gulp down the dry bread. “I thank you for the assistance you provided. It was a victory we should all be proud of.”

He waved away her thanks. “It was the right thing to do.” He was quiet a moment. “I meant to ask what you and Kendrick were discussing so intently earlier. For a moment, I thought you were fighting about something.”

So he had seen their conversation. She took a deep breath, and nearly choked as the cold swarmed into her lungs. “It was an old argument,” she lied. “Do not concern yourself.” With everything that had happened, she barely had a chance to think on Kendrick’s offer, surprising as it was.

She found Alexandre staring at her thoughtfully. “I hope I have not caused you trouble. I do not think Kendrick likes me very much.”

“Not at all,” she said sincerely. “But he is just protective of me.”

Alexandre nodded and ate the rest of his bread and cheese, chewing slowly. Finished, he cleared his throat. “Your father still owns land in Normandy?”

“A small holding in Lisieux. He visits every few years but usually leaves it in the hands of his castellan.” She turned to him, desperate for a change in topic. “And what of your father?” she asked. “You said he had nothing for you in Normandy.”

“Yes. He is a small lording pledged to the Count of Évreux. He already has two sons who would gladly take over for him. A third son is just a nuisance.” There was old bitterness there. For a moment she felt badly for him. Norman inheritance laws were far more restrictive than English ones.

“Would you go back if you could?”

“Would your father?”

She shook her head. Although he remained true to his Norman roots, her father had become attached to English soil. In that respect, she was glad he had passed on so he would not have to choose between the land he had grown to love and the land he hailed from.

Alexandre exhaled. She could not tell what emotion was behind it. “I am in England for as long as I can serve William. My future is here, for better or worse.”

He stretched out beside her. Leather scraped against rock and his cloak slapped against stone as he settled. She tensed, remembering the unexpected press of his body against hers. Only the outline of him was visible in the darkness, but his silent presence nearly dwarfed her under the overhang.

He brought his shoulder and leg to a rest against her, and she nearly jumped. She did not dare shift away, though, given the cold that had crept underneath her clothes.

“Come now, you should rest,” he said as if nothing improper had occurred. “You have had a full day, riding across your father’s lands, slaying Welshmen and dealing with me.”

She laughed, one short, unexpected note, soon lost in the fall of the sleet. “Yes, your presence has certainly been exhausting, Alexandre.”

“Alex,” he said sharply.

“Alex.”

“Bon. Now close your eyes.”

She hesitated. How could she relax, let alone sleep, with the devil himself beside her? She gripped her seax.

He leaned down, his mouth hovering over her ear, and she froze. “I will take the first watch. You have nothing to fear.”

* * * *

She woke, curled into the side of Alexandre, his arm cradling her shoulders. How… She lay there in a stupor. Her back and sides were cold but the front of her was warm where she pressed up against the Norman. Had he taken any liberties once she had fallen asleep? Or worse, had she sought out his warmth as she slept, like a moth seeking flame?

It mattered not. She only knew she did not want him to wake and find her there, wrapped around him like…like some harlot. She straightened and eased away from his slumbering form. When he did not stir, her heartbeat slowed its pace.

The sun barely hovered above the horizon. She walked a fair distance from their camp to relieve herself. Still unbalanced, she did not want to face Alexandre just yet, so she saw to the horses, which both eyed her balefully. “We will be home soon, I promise,” she said, giving them a pat. Alexandre’s mount, a black charger with powerful hindquarters, snorted and stamped his feet at her touch. Temperamental and bred to fight, just like his master.

When she returned, Alexandre was nowhere to be seen. She took a few tentative steps down the trail they traveled the night before. The wind stirred, bringing with it sharp voices. Had he met someone on the road? Had Captain Thomas sent someone after them when they did not return?

She could not make out the words. Wrapping her cloak around her, she crept closer to the voices drifting from the road.

Through the trees, she spied a merchant’s wagon—old Dalston, from the look of it. He always made a point to stop in Ashdown a few times a year, hawking his wares and spinning tales of his travels. Two men, rawboned and savage looking, spoke with the merchant. The morning sun glinted off sword blades too finely wrought to be theirs. No doubt the ruffians had snatched them from hapless travelers they had targeted in the past.

One of the men, scarred by pox, glanced at the trees. Isabel dropped to her knees. She could still hear Dalston bargaining with the thieves for safe passage. “Spare my horses and the wagon, and you’ll have your choice of my goods.” 

Laughter tinged with cruelty was the response.

She slipped her sword out of its scabbard. The thieves did not seem moved by Dalston’s offer. She tightened her hold on the grip and eased into a crouch.

She was jerked back before she could do anything. A hand snaked around her mouth. Someone else’s breath ghosted across her neck. “Easy, ma petite.” Alexandre hunched behind her. He slowly removed his hand from her lips. “There are two more of them waiting down the road.”

She glanced back at him. “Oh.” He was close, the blue of his eyes startlingly clear. All thought left her.

His mouth quirked. “I took the liberty of scouting out the area since you said the roads were dangereux.”

She blinked and remembered herself. “Now do you believe me?”

“I never doubted you.” He pointed to the wagon with his head. “We should think carefully how to proceed.”

“But we must help—”

His gaze flicked toward the road. “Quiet!” He grabbed her and forced her onto the ground. His body pressed against hers shamefully. She felt every breath, his chest expanding and contracting against hers like a blacksmith’s bellows, throwing off so much heat she hardly felt the frozen ground digging into her.

The pressure eased as Alexandre lifted himself off her to peer through the trees. She barely heard the men haggling over the sound of her racing heartbeat. “I never said I would not help.” He sounded insulted. “Come.” Alexandre pulled her to her feet and led her through the trees, moving more silently than she could have thought possible for a man his size.

He stopped, and she almost ran into him. She grabbed his woolen cloak to steady herself. The weave felt smooth against her fingers, and was nearly as fine as hers. 

“There.” He pointed through the trees. Two more men sat on a fallen log set along the road, their sickly mounts cropping the dormant brambles that grew alongside the muddy track. Rather poor lookouts.

Alexandre beckoned her to follow him.

When he was almost directly behind them, he raised the pommel of his sword and slammed it down on the first man’s head. He pitched forward, unconscious. Before the other man could get his wits about him, Alexandre punched him in the face, and he slumped to the ground alongside his companion.

Isabel found rope attached to one of the men’s saddles—long enough to stretch between two trees bordering the road to fell any rider who would pass through. Alexandre grunted in approval at her find and trussed the men up.

She wrung her hands. “Hurry. I do not want Dalston to get hurt.”

Instead of ducking back through the forest, they trotted down the road. Isabel wiped her palms on her dress and kept her sword in front of her.

A shout rent the air. Alexandre sped forward without a backward glance. The man certainly moved when he wished to. Isabel hitched up her skirt and ran after him.

The thieves, no longer interested in negotiating, dragged Dalston from his seat on the wagon. One of the fiends leveled a knife at his back, while the scarred one rifled through his wares.

Alexandre slashed at the thief holding the knife. The man screamed and grabbed his arm, now streaked with blood. The knife thudded to the ground. 

Wide-eyed, Dalston pulled away. He collapsed near the tree line, clasping his chest. The old man should have known better than to travel without guards. 

The scarred man at the wagon fumbled for his blade as Alexandre approached and managed to hold off the knight’s first sweep of his sword.

Then the man lunged at Alexandre, the sword striking only air. 

Alexandre chuckled and flinched toward his opponent. The man gave a cry and scrambled back from the Norman until he was pressed against the side of the wagon. 

Isabel had taken two steps toward Dalston, when the other thief reached for his sword despite his damaged wrist, his eyes on Alexandre’s back as he traded blows with his scarred partner.

She pointed her blade at the man’s neck. “Drop your sword.”

The man looked at her out of the corner of his eye and spat. She pressed the tip of her blade into his skin, making him wince. “Now.”

The sword clattered to the ground, and he held up his hands.

Alexandre disarmed his opponent and knocked his head into the side of the wagon. He collapsed to the ground in a heap.

Alexandre turned to her, looking inordinately proud of himself.

She forced her gaze away from his eyes, which were merry with victory, and turned to the merchant. “Dalston, you old fool, tell me you have rope.”

* * * *

Isabel dashed out instructions for dealing with the bound thieves and turned her horse over to the blacksmith within moments of their return to the castle. Alex stood back and watched her work, a flurry of orders and vigor.

Captain Thomas, Hugh and Jerome had been waiting for them. “My lady, I did not know what to think when you did not return,” the old man said once he was able to get a word in.

Isabel’s cheeks reddened. “As you can see, we are no worse for our travels.”

Alex could feel the inquisitive gazes his men gave him. Jerome, especially, eyed him with a smirk on his lips. “She feared her horse injured so we walked.”

“Walked?” Hugh asked in a startled voice. He turned to Alex. “Why did you not ride together on your mount?”

Isabel stiffened. “I did not want to inconvenience Alexandre.”

Hugh snorted. “It would be no inconvenience. He’s supposed to be your—”

“Escort,” Alex cut in. “And as such, it was Lady Isabel’s decision how we traveled,” he said, giving Hugh a warning look.

Isabel rested her gaze on Hugh for a long moment before she darted a look around the courtyard, worrying her lip with her teeth. “Yes, well, if you will excuse me.” She did not look at Alex once before she headed indoors.

Alex watched Isabel’s trim figure disappear before turning to Captain Thomas.

“Thank you for keeping Isabel safe,” the old knight said, his face always the benign mask of civility. “That horse was a gift from her father. She would never let any harm come to it.”

“So I have learned.”

Captain Thomas excused himself, and Alex let Hugh and Jerome lead him to the training ground where the rest of his men waited. “To be honest, Alex, I do not know how you can be so casual about your good fortune,” Jerome said as they walked.

“Good fortune?”

“Yes, in Lady Isabel.”

“How can you say that? She has been a shrew since we arrived,” Alex said even as he thought back to the way her unkempt hair had shone in the morning sun filtering down through the trees. He had feigned sleep when she woke, curious to see how she would react when she found herself tucked against his side. As much as he wanted to explore her mouth again, self-preservation told him not to push her too far much too soon.

“I am sure she will come around. You have always enjoyed a challenge. And Lady Isabel seems to have captured your attention,” Jerome said playfully.

“But do you think you can trust her?” Hugh asked.

Alex turned to Hugh. “I want to. She has been cooperative up to a point, but I do think she is keeping something from us.”

“I am not surprised. Her father may be Norman but she has been raised in this barbaric land.”

Alex gave his shield bearer a sharp glance. “She is no barbarian. She is just confused and needs time to adjust to her new circumstances. But my first concern must be her father. Do you think it strange he has not returned home yet?”

Hugh shrugged. “Perhaps. The weather could have worsened, or he may have taken ill. Any number of things could have happened.”

“Indeed. I am just impatient to have this business over with.”

Jerome laughed. “Well, who would not if the prize was Lady Isabel?”