Siege Of the Heart (6 page)

Averill tamed her thick, chestnut hair and tucked it underneath her headrail. The servant made one last attempt to smooth the locks. “We should go. This way, my lady.”

“Wait.” Isabel picked up her mother’s brooches from the table. “I would wear these too.”

“Yes, my lady.” Averill placed them on either shoulder to hold back Isabel’s light mantle.

Isabel relaxed under the familiar weight of the golden bands passed down through the generations. Regardless of what happened in her conference with the Norman knight, she had something to remind her of heritage.

Following the servant across the hall, she reached for the seax, which normally hung at her waist, but the short, sharp knife was not there. Instead, only her leather purse and keys to the larder and storage rooms hung from her belt. Matilde had informed her their Norman visitor had seen fit to confiscate her weapons.

Another point they would have to settle.

Isabel grimaced as Averill stopped at the door to her father’s chambers. Unfortunately, apart from her rooms, they were the only quarters befitting a man of Alexandre’s station—the
 
envoy of the man who would soon be the king of England.

The door opened, and Alexandre admitted the two women into Lord Dumont’s solar.

“Please sit.” Alexandre indicated the chairs placed around a table covered in Father’s correspondence and accounts. He signaled for the servant to leave them.

With one last pitying look at Isabel, Averill shut the door behind her. Isabel remained standing, warily staring down Alexandre. He stared back, his sharp blue gaze trained on her.

He appeared even more formidable in the flickering candlelight than he had when she first awakened. His thick, black hair was roughly shaped in the Norman tradition, and the knight wore it long, framing his angular face. He was several inches taller than she, an uncommonly tall girl herself. He had massive shoulders with such strength and power she could only assume they were the result of rigorous training and countless battles. William had brought his finest men to the shores of England.

They stood there like hunter and prey, but she would be no man’s quarry.

“I am Alexandre d’Évreux. But you, my dear, can call me Alex.”

He was clean-shaven, and she caught herself staring at the way his lips quirked. Englishmen, even her father, wore beards. Until now, she had not realized how much emotion the facial hair hid from view.

“I am here to escort Lord Dumont and his family to London, where he is to greet King William. While the lord is away, I am acting in his place. I chose to ignore your questionable arrival when you were with fever.” He walked toward her with a decided prowl to his gait. “Now, I will wait no longer for answers.”

Isabel lifted her chin, willing herself to ignore the fatigue already clamoring for attention. “I have questions of my own.”

“I am sure. But first, Lady Isabel, you will explain to me why Matilde thought it necessary to hide your identity from me.”

“I know not.” Her gaze swept over him once more. “Perhaps she thought your intentions were dishonorable.”

A muscle worked in his jaw. “Matilde is extremely loyal to you, no doubt. I assure you, I am acting under orders from William himself. No harm will come to you or your family, but I expect your cooperation.”

She stiffened. “Am I a prisoner?”

“
Non
, not unless you refuse to cooperate. I only intend to be your family’s escort to London. How easy or difficult that is will be up to you. Now, please, sit down.” He gripped her uninjured arm gently above the elbow and led her to the chair. She finally sat, grateful for the reprieve for her tired body.

Alexandre took his seat across from her. “This is much more pleasant, is it not?” he said, seemingly oblivious to her hostility.
 

He thought he had won. She saw it in his twinkling ice-blue eyes. Well, let him think that. She was still in control of the situation despite whatever Alexandre might believe.

“You can speak French without even a hint of an English accent.” He inclined his head toward her. “I am impressed.”

“My father bade me and my brother to learn both English and French in our studies.” Her scalp pricked at the careful way he watched her. Very well, she would play the humble maid for now. She ducked her head and folded her hands in her lap. “What else do you wish to know?” she asked with false resignation.

Under the veil of her eyelashes, she saw him relax slightly when he decided she was not going to make a fuss. “To begin with, why were you away from home?”

“I accompanied some of our men to ensure our borders were safe.” That was true enough. She did not want to lie to the Norman any more than she had to. “There have been rumors of the Welsh making forays into England.”

“I see. How is your shoulder?”

“Fine. I thank you.” She did not appreciate the smug, self-satisfied look that had settled on his handsome face. She forced her attention away and concentrated on the harvest scene gracing the tapestries warming the walls of the room.

“I am amazed your father would let you become involved in such a dangerous situation.”

“My father was not here to let me.”

“And just where is your father? And your brother, for that matter?”

“My father was called away to fight at Stamford Bridge and has yet to return.” She looked him full in the face. “And I am certain you can guess the fate of my brother,” she said softly.

The Norman had the decency to look chagrined. “I know we fought against him at Hastings, but I know not if he survived the encounter. Has he sought to give you word?”

Isabel firmly shook her head.

“Even if he does live, he made no secret of his loyalty.” He paused, his gaze searching. “Do you understand what I am trying to tell you?”

She turned her head away for a moment, swallowing back the bile in her throat. Her fingers drummed against the keys fastened to her belt. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

“You say your father fought at Stamford Bridge. Believe you he went on to fight at Hastings?”

“
Non
.”

“Was your father loyal to Harold?”

“My father thought Harold a fool,” she said quickly. “Duty bade him to fight for Harold against Tostig and the Norsemen when the witan proclaimed Harold king.”

“If that is true, where is he? He has had over two months to return here.”

She shrugged. Her shoulder ached at the movement, and the sensation drowned out any attack of her conscience. “I wish I could tell you,” she said, trying to keep her features as neutral as possible. “He said he would come home after fulfilling his obligations, regardless of what else Harold would ask of him. The roads further north may be impassable, which could have delayed his travel here.”

He contemplated her for a moment, as if trying to make sense of all she told him. “How long will you need to make ready for London?”

“I, go to London? Impossible.” She shook her head. “I will stay here. I will tell my father of your visit when he returns. I am sure he will be eager to renew his acquaintance with William.”

He held up his large, thick-knuckled hands. “I must insist I stay here until he does so. I would feel accountable if anything were to happen to you.”

“That is unnecessary. I can run the castle on my own.”

Alexandre smiled like a man who just won a game of dice. “In your weakened state and the injury to your sword arm,” he said, gesturing to her shoulder, “you need all the protection I can offer. Besides, as I said, William included you in his summons to London, and my orders are to remain with you and your family until you comply. Now, I ask you again, how long will it take you to make ready for London?”

Isabel nearly shivered at his cold gaze despite the small brazier in the corner of the room. He was going to be harder to get rid of than she had originally thought. “Surely we will wait for my father to return?”

“Why, yes. I almost forgot,” he replied smoothly. He smiled at her again and rose from his chair. He gave Isabel a small bow. “My lady, you would honor me if you would show me your family’s home tomorrow. I am sure you will want to assure yourself that my men have not disturbed the castle during your illness.”

Isabel rose, stiff from sitting so long. The meeting was almost over, and her spirit was stretched thin, like an overworked piece of iron at the smithy. “
Certainement
,” she said, hating the suggestion and the thought of spending any more time in his presence.

Alexandre stepped closer. “My apologies for keeping you so late as you must still be weary. We shall continue this conversation tomorrow.” He walked to the door and opened it for her.

The doorframe wavered in the torchlight as she moved toward him. Almost there. She forced herself to take another step. And another after that. With a sickening lurch, the room shifted under her feet. Her breath stalled in her throat. The Norman suddenly surrounded her on all sides.

In the next instant, Alexandre’s strong arms drew her off the floor. His warm breath on her neck made her shudder. As soon as her ears stopped buzzing, she tried to wriggle out of his grip. This man always seemed to find her at her worst.

“Sir, put me down at once. I am quite recovered!”

He grunted as she dug her elbow into his stomach. “Save your strength, you foolish wench. I am a brute for keeping you here for so long.”

He entered her solar and headed toward the adjoining bedroom.

“You are a brute! I command you to put me down!”

He grunted again as her fist connected with his breastbone. “You, my lady, can only make requests, not commands.” He growled the words into her ear. “And even then I do not have to heed them.”

He dropped her onto her bed, and she let out an involuntary squeal. He grinned down at her. For the second time that day, Isabel found herself lamenting the fact he had taken away her weapons. “I will have some food sent up so you can regain your strength.”

“That is unnecessary. I will—”

“
Non
. Rest is what you need. Do not make me post a guard at your door.”

Isabel glared at him for what seemed to be an eternity, with the knight’s sturdy frame towering over her. She felt weak and shaky inside like a newborn lamb, but it had nothing to do with fainting.

Alexandre’s lips curled into a smile. “Tomorrow, then.”

5

“So this is where you have been hiding.” Isabel found her father’s advisor staring out over the castle walls, a remoteness to his weary features.

Captain Thomas turned and smiled, and she impulsively threw her good arm around him. After a moment, he gently pushed her away. He studied her face and shook his head, clucking in disapproval. “It was a foolish thing to do, my lady, especially considering the messenger’s tidings.”

The messenger… She flushed under Captain Thomas’s gaze and stood by the wall. The newly risen sun glinted off the rolling countryside still blanketed in snow. She tried to concentrate on the scenery, but her thoughts would not heed her. Captain Thomas would not be put off any longer. They would have the conversation she had avoided by running away like a child, with more disastrous results than she thought possible.

“Your father bade me to stay in Ashdown to protect you, and by joining the scouting party against my wishes, you have undone that,” he said in a sharp voice. “Your brother is as good as dead if he is not already. And you already know your father’s fate.”

She let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. “To think he was brought down by a fever…” Julien’s message told her their father had been injured at Stamford Bridge and died of a fever two days outside of London during the army’s march south to the coast, where William’s forces waited. He had been so full of life when he left—he had patted her cheek and told her not to worry before he and his soldiers surged through the gates. “He deserved better. Now, I only wish Julien had decided to come home instead of going on to fight the Normans at Hastings.”

Captain Thomas closed his eyes for a moment. “You mustn’t let it trouble you. Your brother made his choice a long time ago.”

Isabel grimaced. “I know.” Julien had fully embraced his English ancestry. He spent much of his life at court, befriending many of the English thanes and housecarls. Julien had done everything he could to diminish his Norman background in the eyes of his fellow Englishmen to be accepted. Facing the Normans would be the ultimate test.