Betrothed (10 page)

    
Donovan shrugged his massive shoulders and expressionlessly explained. “I make
it my practice to afford all of my people protection. You will not be accosted
by man nor beast.” He turned back to the fire before he finished his
assurances.

    
Isabeau had no choice but to follow his instructions. She settled down on the
middle pallet and whispered to Carrie to follow suit. She settled on her side
and watched his profile through lowered lashes as the sky darkened. She had
hoped to speak with him once they were away from Olivet about things more
substantial than her muddled tongue had let loose earlier. Mayhap the
opportunity would present itself on the morrow.

    
She suppressed the shiver Donovan’s flat tone generated. She had thought their
shared banter upon their arrival at the camp site had warmed his heart. Worry
returned to keep her company.

    
What had happened at Olivet to steal the warmth from his blue eyes?  No
emotion showed to color his demeanor. She was sure Simon had done something to
displease her betrothed and yet Donovan did not vent his anger. He had not
challenged Simon.

    
The absolute control Donovan welded frightened Isabeau even more than if he had
just thrashed Simon for his indiscretion—or even herself for running away.

The restraint
did not bode well, in Isabeau’s estimation, for a comfortable marriage. The
practice of such control exhibited a need for chains. And chains, no matter the
strength, could eventually be broken.

What would it
take to break Donovan’s self-discipline? 

What would
happen when they did break? 

He already had
a fierce reputation for dealing with the King’s enemies. How much more of his
snarling inner beast would be unleashed against a personal enemy? 

What kind of
chastisements and punishments would be reaped upon the head of a wife who
stumbled in her duties? 

The question
brought to mind Blanche’s lecture on marital duties. Duties of such an intimate
nature, Isabeau couldn’t begin to imagine the—the
consummation
of them.
Would Donovan really do all of those things—and more, Blanche had added—to her
body?  She was to let him?  To encourage him?  To ensure an
heir, she was to…

She flipped
over onto her other side—to face away from the fire—away from Donovan. Her
heart thundered in her chest. She would never sleep now. The fire was too
hot—the ground too hard.

Perhaps the
earl would be amenable to an extended betrothal?  They could use the time
to—to become acquainted before they—before they shared marital intimacies. She
resisted the urge to sneak another peak at the large warrior who now had right
to—to everything.

She sucked in
a gulp of air and slowly let it out between her teeth. The action did little to
relax her but she did hear a strange sound between the thumping of her heart in
her ears.

Carrie seemed
to be even more restless in her makeshift bed. The layers of the girl’s clothes
caused a rustling which rivaled the breeze in the trees overhead. Isabeau
thought she detected a couple of sniffles and a carefully muffled sob from the
next bedroll.

Was Carrie
crying?  Was she scared of a night in the wilderness?  Was she
missing home already?  Had it finally dawned on her how great the distance
she would be traveling from her mother?

Isabeau
reached out and put her hand on Carrie’s shoulder in silent comfort. The girl
flinched and rolled out of reach facing the other direction. Isabeau withdrew
her arm and curled into a tighter ball herself.

What was she
to do with Carrie? 

Worry about
the younger girl succeeded in distracting Isabeau from dwelling on her own
problems. She vowed to resolve Carrie’s dilemmas in the light of the morning.
With the surety she could easily settle Carrie, Isabeau drifted off to sleep.

She woke up to
the clamminess of a blanket of dew. She had not realized even her hair would be
kissed by Mother Nature. She sat up to survey the camp. The pink of the
approaching sun ate away at the sky’s azure. A hushed quality hovered over the
activity already stirring the earl’s men and while Carrie was beginning to
wake, the pallet on Isabeau’s other side was not just empty—it was gone.

She turned
back to Carrie. “We have to hurry. I will see what preparations are needed for
breaking our fast as soon as we return from the river.”

In her haste
to stand and begin to roll up her own bed, Isabeau nearly missed Carrie’s slow
and stiff movements. One night on the ground shouldn’t cause such discomfort.
Isabeau remembered the tears hidden in the night.

With renewed
intent, she followed Carrie through the bushes to the curve in the river
assigned for the women’s use. Answering a small mystery would be a boost to her
flagging confidence. As much as she would appreciate a familiar and friendly
face when she arrived at Bennington, she didn’t want one who would be sobbing
in her pillow every night.

She waited
until they had both attended to their needs and were kneeling at the bank to
rinse their hands and face before she broached the subject.

“Do you wish
to return to Olivet?”

Isabeau was
completely unprepared for the violent reaction of her simple question. Carrie
twisted around so fast she lost her footing. She flailed her arms to regain her
balance. Isabeau reached out to grab Carrie’s shoulder to assist. Carrie
screamed, and pulled away so hard they both ended in the water.

Before Isabeau
could gain the bank, hands were pulling both of them to dry ground.

“Are you hurt,
milady?”

Her mouth open
to answer the two helpful guards, she snapped it shut as Donovan, followed by
Carstairs and a dozen other men thundered through the trees and filled the
small clearing. The sun glinted from Donovan’s drawn blade and Isabeau noticed
all of the men were similarly prepared for battle.

“
’Tis
nothing, my
lord.” Isabeau studied the damage to their dresses and would have laughed if
not for the tears trickling down Carrie’s white cheeks. “I lost my balance and
pulled Carrie into the river with me. Our two protectors here, yanked us out
before we could swallow more than a couple of gallons. I would consider it a
great boon if someone could retrieve my two gray gowns from my trunk. We both
need something dry to wear.”

Carstairs was
the one who signaled Donovan’s squire to do Isabeau’s bidding. Donovan
completed his own inspection of the damage.

“You weren’t
injured?” he asked in his gravelly voice.

“Nay,” she
denied as she shook her head. “Only my dignity is bruised.”

Donovan shook his
head and waved his men back. “Join us when you have repaired the ravages of
your latest adventure.”

“I apologize
for the delay my clumsiness has caused.”

He only shook
his head again before disappearing through the thicket.

Isabeau turned
to Carrie when they were alone again. “Come further away from the bank. Now, as
to my question, do you wish to return to Olivet?”

“No, milady.”
Carrie answered in a tear roughened whisper.

“Lady
Isabeau,” hailed the squire before he breached the clearing. “I have your
dresses and a drying cloth as well. Holler, should you need anything else.” He
practically threw the clothes at Isabeau before disappearing back the way he
came.

Isabeau sighed
as she stared at the mound of clothing. She would have been better off sending
Carrie to get the needed garments or retrieving them herself but she remembered
Carrie’s cry as she had grabbed the girl’s shoulder. The sound had not been one
of surprise—but one of pain.

“Hurry,”
Isabeau urged as she began to peal away her wet clothes. “If we rinse out the
mud now, we can spread our dresses atop the wagons. They will be dry by the
time we stop for the mid-day meal.”

Isabeau
pulled her outer dress over her head and slowly dropped it to the grass. From
the corner of her eye, she watched Carrie’s progress. The girl quickly shed her
apron and even her outer dress but she had more difficulty with her second
dress. When Isabeau moved to help her, Carrie stepped away keeping her back from
Isabeau. Isabeau relented, finished changing her own shift and pulled her
under-dress over her head.

She
pretended to ignore Carrie’s trouble in removing her shift until the girl gave
up and began to pull Isabeau’s extra dress over the damp article.

“You
are defeating the purpose of changing into fresh clothes if you do that,”
Isabeau commented wryly. “Let me help.”

This
time Isabeau did not retreat when Carrie yelped in protest. She grabbed the
girl’s hand and held Carrie in place while she circled her. Carrie hunched her
shoulders as if to hide evidence of a guilty secret. She whimpered at the pain
caused by her movement.

“Oh,
Carrie.” Isabeau wanted to weep for the pain the girl must be enduring. Even
through the shift, the evidence of a recent brutal beating was obvious. The
rusty stains of dried blood crisscrossed the narrow back. “We have to get that
shift off you. It is sticking to the wounds. Sit down.”

“But
milady…” Carrie tried to protest but Isabeau merely tugged her hand down
towards the ground. “Now!” Even Isabeau was surprised at her emphatic order.

Carrie
had no alternative but to capitulate. She settled on the mossy grass, her legs
bent tailor fashion
.
Isabeau raised Carrie’s skirt above her
waist until is stuck against the girl’s wounds.

Would it be better to pull it off quickly or slowly?

She
began to peel the cloth away carefully but the scabs were obviously recent and
began to bleed. Carrie sucked in her breath.

“Carrie,
you are beginning to bleed again. I am going to take your dress quickly over
your head.” Isabeau gave the girl no chance to protest but tore the fabric from
her back as she spoke, gritting her teeth as she did so.

It
was horrible. Isabeau grabbed her own discarded shift and dipped it into the
babbling river. She twisted out some of the excess water before draping the wet
cloth over Carrie’s back. Carrie shivered—against the cold or pain, Isabeau
couldn’t take time to decipher.

“Who
did this to you?” she demanded without ceremony.

Carrie
dropped her chin against her chest and shook her head.

“Was
it your father or mother?”

“No!”
Carrie snapped her head back to stare at Isabeau with surprise bringing at
least some color to her face that was white beneath her tears.

“No,”
Isabeau agreed. “Your mama and papa would not beat an animal, let alone one of
their children.” She reached out and pushed a lock of blonde hair away from
Carrie’s comely young face. She remembered the spilt wine. “Lord Simon did this
to you, did he not?”

Carrie
dropped her chin down and stubbornly remained silent, but Isabeau noticed she
did not deny the deductions. Then she remembered the oath Carrie had given
Donovan only the day before.

Carrie was never to speak of those at Olivet.

“Wait
here.” Isabeau instructed softly.

“Milady,
I mustn’t delay the earl.” Protest sounded in Carrie’s voice as she tried to
stand.

Isabeau
waved her back down. “Stay here. I am only going to see if anyone has some
healing salve. We want you on the mend when we arrive at Bennington. I don’t
think you would enjoy having to peal off your shift a second time.”

Thankfully,
the girl obeyed as Isabeau slipped through the trees in search of Donovan. He
would know who to ask about the salve. She couldn’t imagine his troop not being
prepared for all contingencies.

She
found her betrothed, his back to her, as he and Carstairs received a report
from Malak.    

“My
lord?” she interrupted firmly, even as she smiled her welcome to the engaging
young courier.

“Isabeau,”
Donovan swiveled in her direction. “As soon as you eat, we can be on our way.”

“I
have come to ask if you have a healer amongst your men who could lend me some
salve.”

Donovan’s
face turned cold and fierce in the same instant. “You told me you were unhurt,”
he demanded between his teeth.

In
spite of wanting desperately to turn tail and run away from this stranger, she
stood her ground. She put a gentle hand on his sword arm to prevent him from
needlessly drawing his blade.

She
shook her head. “’Tis not for me, Donovan.”

“Then…”
He was quick to comprehend. “The maid?  How bad?”

“Bad
enough to make her shift stick to her wounds. She would rather ignore the pain
than cause you delay. I do not want to take the risk of fever or blood
sickness. I will tend to her. It is my duty—my fault.”

Donovan
stared at her for a moment before asking, “Why do you take the blame?”

Isabeau
sighed before confessing. “She refuses to break the oath she gave you, but I am
not stupid. Simon hit her once because I spilled his wine. I have been the
source of much of his unhappiness and he has taken it out on others.”

Donovan
seemed about to say something before he swallowed his words and turned to
Carstairs. An unusually somber Carstairs straightened to his full height. “I
will bring you Hemrick’s pouch.”

Before
Isabeau could thank him, Carstairs had threaded his way between the men
readying their horses and packs. She felt another stab of guilt. Once again she
was the cause of so much trouble.

“Again,
I apologize for—for…”

“For
what, Isabeau?”

She
wasn’t sure if a smile or a grimace curved the corner of Donovan’s mouth. She
shrugged helplessly.

“For
everything. I have been nothing but a hindrance to you since we met.”

“A
distracting hindrance -- if a bit of a braggart.”

“A
braggart?” She glanced up into his blue eyes.

“You
try to claim all credit when others should take their due.”

“Carrie
has…”

“Has
no blame to claim. I agree. I know the culprit,” Donovan interjected sternly.

“Here
you are, my lady.” Carstairs’ sudden reappearance stifled whatever reply Isabeau
might have made. “If you need any assistance, Hemrick knows what he is about.”

Isabeau
took the pouch and glanced back at Donovan. “I was wondering, my lord, if I
might ride in the wagon with Carrie today—at least part of the way. I know my
place is at your side but the side saddle was not made for long distances.” A
mischievous snipe got a hold of her tongue and she spoke before thinking.
“Surprisingly, being the earl’s courier can be more comfortable than being his
betrothed.”

Peals
of Carstairs’ laughter followed her back to the river.