took her to the edge of a small wood. A stream, not frozen fully, wound through it. The soft tinkle of water made the forest less lonely in its snow-blanketed state. Isabel dismounted and walked along the bank. She bent to pick up a stone with her left hand and threw it into the stream, splintering the ice threatening to take hold.
She had explored here before, playing games with Julien when they were younger. Their youthful shouts still seemed to linger on the frigid air. If she squinted, she could see her brother’s brown mop of hair as he crouched behind a tree trunk, ready to jump out and scare her. Tears blinded her as they slipped down her cheeks, blurring the memories. She angrily brushed them away.
Now was not the time for grief. Not with Normans in Ashdown. Now, she had to plan.
The Dumont lands were hers—to manage and, more importantly, to protect. And she needed to make sure they would stay that way. She also needed to ensure her people would survive the transition to Norman rule. She needed to know she had done all she could to prepare them and thereby honor her father’s legacy.
With Alexandre and his band of Normans already enjoying her hospitality, she was at a loss as how to proceed. She took a deep breath, trying to steady the tumult she felt cascading through her. The sharp air burning in her lungs only provided a momentary distraction.
Her horse pranced fitfully beside her. She reached out to pat Hardwin’s neck, but then she heard it too—men on horseback crashing through the underbrush.
Alexandre and a group of his men barreled toward her. Branches snapped, and snow swished in the wake of the galloping horses. She jammed her foot in the stirrup and hauled herself into the saddle. A sharp pain sheared across her body, daring her to cry out. She had reopened her wound, but if she stopped to check her shoulder, Alexandre would catch up to her.
She would not speak to him out here in the woods, surrounded by his men and not hers. She had seen the grim look on his face. He was definitely angry, but he needed to realize she was not some simpering, ignorant noblewoman who would demurely accept his authority. She was Lady Isabel Dumont, and would not stand to be ordered about by some brazen and bull-headed knight.
As it was, she had already made a fool of herself by collapsing in his presence. The reins dug into her palms. She had to show him she was no weak woman in need of his protection.
With the help of her superior mount and intimate knowledge of the forest, she led Alexandre and his men on a merry chase, through dormant thorn bushes and over fallen logs. She would have laughed every time one of their muffled curses floated within hearing if her shoulder did not pain her so much. She finally emerged from the woods and spurred her horse on. Hardwin kicked up clods of snow and easily outstripped Alexandre and his men.
In the bailey, she dismounted, spying Kendrick and Godric as they exited the stables.
“Isabel, my lady, you look well!” Kendrick exclaimed.
She clasped each of their hands in turn. “Where have you been?”
“Captain Thomas suggested we tend to the Welsh bodies and clear the site,” Kendrick said. “He also thought it best we get out from underfoot of our Norman visitors.”
“I am glad to see you feeling better, my lady,” Godric cut in.
Isabel nodded. “I thank you. I am still—”
“They are still here?” Kendrick dropped his hand to the hilt of his sword. “I thought they would leave once they learned of your father’s ties to Normandy.”
Her chest tightened at the suspicion in his voice. She turned around. Alexandre and the rest of his men streamed through the gates.
The Norman dismounted and strode over to her. “Perhaps you forgot your promise, my lady.” The Norman’s icy stare did not miss Kendrick’s defensive attitude or the protective stance he took in front of her.
“William is eager to renew his acquaintance with my father,” she explained in English to Kendrick softly. “He sent these men here to escort him to London.”
“And has your father returned?” Kendrick asked her without taking his eyes off Alexandre. Two more Normans now flanked the stormy-faced knight.
“No. The Normans will be staying here until he gets back. They have been...” she struggled for the right word, “well-mannered so far.”
“So far...” Kendrick echoed hollowly as Alexandre turned his unbearable stare on her.
Isabel pushed past Kendrick and returned to her horse’s side, head held high. Kendrick still had his hand on the hilt of his sword, and Godric was tense beside him. “Stand down,” she said firmly. Kendrick’s gaze flickered to her, and he reluctantly complied.
“My lady?” the Norman prompted. “I thought we had plans for today. And they did not include chasing you across the countryside.” He came to a stop next to her.
Isabel busied herself with her saddlebags and the collection of medicinal herbs she had stored there for the ride. “Oh yes…that. I decided my horse needed the exercise.”
Alexandre grabbed her shoulders and spun her around to face him. Her bundle of herbs scattered to the ground. He must have been too angry to see her wince in pain. Or the fact that Godric was barely able to keep Kendrick from attacking him.
The Norman held her in place as a stable boy hurried over to lead the horses away. The warmth of his hands sunk through her cloak. Her breath hitched. The sage-like smell of crushed yarrow leaves warred with the pungent odor of hyssop.
“I must insist you do not leave the castle grounds without my permission in the future,” Alexandre said. “It is too dangerous for you to wander off without an escort. You could have been hurt!” By now he was shouting, his deep voice attracting more onlookers.
“I assure you I am perfectly safe on my own lands. Although, if you are concerned, you could return my weapons. And you, sir, are the only one who is hurting me.” She looked meaningfully to his hand on her injured shoulder.
Alexandre immediately let go. “Jesu! I am sorry. Are you all right?”
Though ready to argue further, she remained silent as one of the servants gathered up the herbs and medicinal plants strewn across the ground. Alexandre watched her with concern. “I am fine,” she said slowly once the servant had retreated.
“I forgot your injury in my concern for your welfare. A thousand pardons, my lady.” He held out his arm. “We should get you inside so your shoulder can be tended.”
She wanted to protest, but nearly all the castle inhabitants were watching their interaction now. A public quarrel would just make things worse. He had done it again—made her feel like a fool.
She hesitated in taking his arm just long enough to let the man know she was not happy about being led inside like a child. As they headed to the stairs, Matilde found them. Isabel instructed her to fetch more bandages and meet her in her room.
She felt the Norman’s eyes on her as they walked to her chambers in silence. Alexandre waited for her to enter, and after a moment’s pause, he came inside as well, hovering near the door. She removed her mantle and flung it on her bed. A small amount of blood had soaked through her dress.
She saw his grimace at the rust-colored stain
