“I am ready.”
Stephen pulled the arrow free, and she pressed the cloth against the spurting wound.
God help them, FitzAlan was insensible and pale as death.
Stephen kept pressure on the wound while she cut a long strip from the bottom of her cloak. Then, working together, they wound the strip over the cloth covering the wound, around his back, and under his arm. Stephen tied the binding tight across his brother’s chest.
As soon as it was done, Stephen gripped Isobel’s arms and looked into her face. “Those men are still out there. I must divert them before they come into the wood.”
“You are going back?”Sweet Jesus, no. Please no.
“I will come back for you as soon as I can.” He pulled the sword and short blade from FitzAlan’s belt and handed them to her. “But you must be ready should one of them get by me.”
Oh God oh God oh God.
“You can do this, Isobel,” he said, his eyes fixed on hers. “If a man does come, he will believe he sees a helpless woman. That is your advantage.”
She looked down and saw that her hair fell loose about her shoulders. Where was her cap? It must have fallen…
Stephen took hold of her chin and turned her back to face him. “Use his ignorance against him. Use your sword. Kill him, Isobel. Kill him.”
Could she do it? Could she? His eyes drilled into hers until she nodded.
He took her face in his hands and kissed her hard. “Give him no second chances.”
As Stephen’s horse crashed through the underbrush, she gazed down upon the man entrusted to her care. King Henry’s famous commander. Beloved of Catherine. ’Twas her fault he lay here grievously injured. She had distracted them from the real danger.
She took a deep breath and went to retrieve a blanket and flask from the horses. After wrapping the blanket around FitzAlan, she shooed the horses away so they would not give away their hiding place. Then she gathered armfuls of leaves and piled them around FitzAlan.
When she was satisfied FitzAlan was well hidden, she settled down beside him behind the fallen log. The smell of decaying wood and leaves filled her nostrils as she dribbled ale from the flask into his mouth. He swallowed without waking.
She alternated between checking FitzAlan and peeking over the top of the log. Though Stephen could not have been gone long, each moment seemed a day. She would not let herself think of what she would do if he did not return.
God, please keep him safe. Keep him safe.
She heard a twig snap. Gripping the sword in one hand and the short blade in the other, she inched up until she could see over the top of the log. Nothing.
She held her breath and listened.
There it was again.
She turned toward the sound, searching.
And then she saw him. A man, twenty yards off and coming straight toward her. She set down the sword to wipe the sweat from her hand.
Mary, Mother of God. She prayed under her breath that the man’s presence did not mean Stephen was dead.
The man was coming closer. She had to think, to make her plan. He wore no armor, so she had a chance. She heard Stephen’s voice in her head, saying,Isobel, you can do this.
She waited until he was ten feet from her.
She stood abruptly, keeping her hands behind her. “Sir! Please help me!”
The man’s eyes went wide. “Now, here’s a bonus,” he said, relaxing his sword arm and breaking into a wide grin. “I was not told there would be a woman.”
From his accent and his rough clothing, she could tell he was a French commoner. “English soldiers took me from my home,” she called out, pretending to cry. “You must help me, please!”
The man came toward her slowly, as if she were a horse easily spooked. What if he was not one of the attackers? What if he was just some peasant who meant to help her? He had a sword, but—