Page 12 of Lord of Loyalty

Chapter Eight

When the man was gone, Isobel rose and went to stroke the horse’s rough nose. She hoped it might bring back memories of days when she’d been out riding with her brother and friends. What had become of those friends? Had Hubert kept them away because she was ill?

She stopped struggling with her untrustworthy memory. Her mind was closing down again, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. Not knowing what to do with herself, she sank to the ground and started plucking long grass stems, plaiting them together until her fingers ached. When she tired of that, she looked around her, wondering how long she’d waited, and trying to recall what exactly she was waiting for.

She was sitting by a shallow stream in the middle of the countryside. Did that make her a naiad? If so, she ought to be dancing to the pipes. But there were no pipes. Didn’t naiads wear garlands? She must make one forthwith. Ivy would bend and twine easily, but hadn’t she been told not to leave the horse? What if she were to take the horse with her? That would serve, surely—they couldn’t punish her then.

“Isobel! Where are you going?”

The man had returned, flushed and out of breath, limping a little. A truly handsome fellow, with hair the color of ripe straw. She flogged her memory to life again, knowing this was important. He was important.

“Orpheus. I mean, Will. I was going to look for ivy to make a garland.”

“I told you to stay here.” He sounded annoyed, but there was pity in his blue eyes. It bewildered her.

“Forgive me.”

“No matter. Here.” He flung off his short cloak and drew it around her shoulders. It was warm from his body, and she clutched it to her neck, relishing the softness of the fine wool.

“Won’t you be cold?”

His mouth quirked up. “I’m a soldier. I’ll survive the light breeze of a July day, I imagine. But your clothes are poor and worn—we’ll find you something better. Until then, pray, keep the cloak.”

She looked down and picked at the skirts of her kirtle. He was right—why was she dressed like a servant? She flushed, ashamed.

Will tipped her chin up with his finger. “Don’t despair. Lady Fortune has favored us. We are hard by a large estate. The gates are shut, and I can neither see, nor smell, smoke. There’s a cottage in the grounds, the windows of which are all shuttered. ’Tis well screened from the house and the view of any servants who might be looking after the place, so we could lie low there for some time to come. I’ve found an old dew pond with bushes around it in a neighboring field, thick enough to keep Jennet hidden for the time being. We must climb a wall to reach the cottage unseen, however. Could you manage a climb?”

His excitement conveyed itself to her. Or was it his proximity? Something was making her heart perform a gavotte in her chest. Flustered, she took a step back.

“If we must climb, we must. But I may need help.”

He smiled. “You’re doing very well, Mistress Marston. Just don’t forget what you’re doing halfway up. Come.”

He led her to a spot where a thick-trunked maple tree overhung a mossy brick wall. Taking her about the waist, he hoisted her onto the lowest branch. “Shuffle along until you come to the wall, then grasp the top of it. You should be able to find some footholds where bricks have weathered away. I’ll stay below to catch you if you slip.”

She hid her grin as she hitched up her skirts and tucked them into her belt. He might think her a pale, delicate creature, but Edward had taught her to climb trees as a girl. If only there’d been one tall enough for her to escape the walled garden at Marston House! But where would she have gone? She hadn’t had Will to help her before. Now, everything was changed.

Will had chosen the spot well. Below the point where she sat atop the wall was a springy-looking evergreen shrub, a laurel, mayhap. She hung for a moment from her fingertips, then slid down into the bush.

As she let her skirts down, Will joined her, wincing as he landed. There was something wrong with him, wasn’t there? But her mind had blurred again, curse it! She really must try harder—she’d remembered about Edward and tree climbing. A small start, but a start nonetheless.

As Will brushed bits of bark and twig from his hose, she saw bloodied scratches on his hands. “Oh, you’re hurt!”

“Shh!” He raised a finger to his lips. “It’s nothing. Prickles from the hawthorn bushes where I hid Jennet.”

“Let me see.” She took his hand, and stroked a finger gently over the wounds. He recoiled violently, pulling away as if she’d just stabbed him.

“But you said it was nothing.” She didn’t understand his reaction.

He was looking at her strangely, his body tense. She’d done something wrong, broken some code of manners. Was she going to have to rediscover how to behave once she was better?

Then she remembered something he’d said, or she’d dreamed he said. He’d called her a witch. A shiver coursed through her.

“Come, Isobel. ’Tis of no importance. The scratches sting a little, is all. Now, have you a pin? We have a cottage to break into.”

Her pins, as it turned out, were no use at all on so large a lock, but a bent nail was eventually found with which to pick it. The dexterity Will exhibited as he broke into the cottage was impressive. She wondered how often he’d had to do it before. Had he said something about being a soldier? If so, he might have had to break into places while on campaign, in search of a billet. In fact, hadn’t Edward mentioned such a thing in one of his letters?

What had happened to those letters?