“She wears my colors,” Amaury said, biting off the words. “She invited me to Marnis. She instructed all there to swear fealty to me.”
“And thus she made you the target of whoever killed Denis to seize Marnis.” Luc was somber. “Who stands yet with an expectation of claiming the holding? Gaultier’s wife?”
“She would not kill her own son.”
“Perhaps her brother is ambitious, then. Or perhaps the lady would wed another of her own choice, and thus you must die.”
Amaury could not believe it. He would not believe it.
“Perhaps the lady knew of the scheme and strove to protect you,” Fraser contributed, prompting the knights to exchange a glance. Amaury saw that Luc was not inclined to give Isabella the benefit of the doubt.
“I believe she saw the assailant take his aim and tried to push me aside,” Amaury said, looking down at her and disliking her stillness. Surely she could not die?
There must have beenan authority in his voice, for Amaury reached Montvieux to find an ancient crone awaiting him. He remembered Rosalie from the village, and was glad to see her. He had feared she might be dead, and her knowledge lost with her.
He dismounted and lifted Isabella into his arms, watching Rosalie’s gaze flick over his wife’s features. “I must see the wound,” she said.
“I thought you would be among those fled to Sant-André,” he said, but Rosalie scoffed.
“No one is fool enough to do injury to me,” she said, which was likely true.
At her gesture, Amaury carried Isabella into his tent. He laid her on the bed and stood back, letting Rosalie do as she would. Isabella’s kirtle was cut at the shoulder and she stirred then, shaking her head with agitation and seizing the cloth.
“My mother’s nuptial gown,” she murmured. “Silk.”
“It must be removed from the wound, my lady,” Amaury said. “No doubt it can be mended.” The cloth was soaked with blood and he doubted it could be saved, but he sought to reassure her.
“You must keep it safe,” she insisted. “You must promise me.”
Rosalie’s brows rose, but Amaury strove to reassure Isabella that all would be as she decreed. She fainted again, even as he was speaking, and he was uncertain how much of his promise she heard. It distressed him to see her so helpless and still, far more than it had distressed him to see fallen warriors in Palestine.
They had undertaken the task of war. His lady had been injured in her own home.
When the cloth was peeled back from the shoulder, the healer inhaled sharply.
“So close to all of import,” Rosalie murmured, shaking her head. “I must have water, very hot, and clean cloths, andeau-de-vie, sir, a quantity of it.”
Amaury ensured that the healer had every request fulfilled and with haste. He crouched beside her, offering his assistance though it was not needed. The bolt was removed, the wound cleansed and stitched. Through it all, Isabella did not awaken again. She did not gasp or make a response to any deed. She did not frown, and there were moments when Amaury feared she had died in truth. But her breathing remained steady, if shallow, which Rosalie assured him was of the greatest import.
Isabella was so pale, that even when the wound was packed with herbs and bandaged, Amaury was not reassured. Instead, he folded her gown away with great care, securing it in one of his trunks as she had wished. He wrapped the stained section in an old chemise to soak up the blood, knowing she would not like to have the squires wash it. Indeed, the care of such fine material might be beyond even Philip’s skills.
He crouched beside the bed, watching and waiting, hating his helplessness.
“Your lady is one with secrets,” Rosalie said. “Though I would not give you asoufor a woman without any such.”
“What do you mean?”
She reached a gnarled finger beneath Isabella’s chemise and hooked it around a cord Amaury had not noticed. There proved to be a trio of keys upon the cord, though Amaury would not have guessed at their presence, so securely had they been hidden beneath Isabella’s clothes.
To his satisfaction, Rosalie settled back as if she had no intention of leaving the tent. “I will stay until she awakens,” she said and Amaury nodded with relief.
“You would refresh yourself? We have little but it is yours.”
Rosalie chuckled. “I would have a measure of thateau-de-vie, if you can spare it.”
“I can and will,” Amaury said, calling to Philip to make the healer’s request. He declined any of the potent potion himself but sat with Rosalie, keeping vigil over Isabella. Did the hue of her skin improve? He hoped he did not imagine that it did.
He realized that Rosalie was watching him and stirred himself to recall his manners. “Were you here when my father died?”