Chapter One
Nottinghamshire
1191
Twelve nights until the Winter Solstice. That meant Isobel de Lacy had eleven days to find a way to avoid marriage to Sir Guy of Gisborne, the man her guardian cousin had decided she would marry on December 22 before he left on Crusade.
She would sacrifice herself to the Great Horned God before that happened.
“Lady Isobel,” one of kitchen maids who’d accompanied her on the outing to gather holly this morning said, “how much farther into the forest do ye want to go?”
Isobel glanced at the near-empty aprons of the three maids who trailed after her. None of them looked especially pleased to be out of doors on a chilly morning, but the pages that would normally be gathering the boughs were busy helping her cousin Roger’s squires prepare armor and weapons for the journey to Outremer.
“We have hardly gathered enough to cover one mantel,” she replied, “and you know Lord de Lacy expects the entire Great Hall to be decorated for Yule.”
“I hope his lordship is nae expecting us to be bringing in the big log as well,” a second girl grumbled.
“I suspect the knights will vie for that honor.”
The third maid sniggered. “I’d rather have them knights vie for the honor of leaping o’re the bonfires with me.”
“Aye!” the other two agreed and burst into giggles.
Isobel smiled at their youthful thinking and wished the only thing she had to be concerned with was whether a virile young man would choose her as his partner on the twelfth night Solstice celebration. Not that she would have been allowed to participate in the thoroughly pagan ritual that most lords still allowed the servants to hold. Even growing up in Wales where the goddess Bridgid was still worshipped, her parents—may their souls rest in peace—had plans for her to marry a proper English lord.
But then, they’d had no idea that lord would turn out to be Sir Guy of Gisborne. Her first impression of him had left her shaken. When he’d bowed over her hand the night they’d been introduced, the touch had chilled her blood. His smile had looked more like a wolf baring its teeth and his eyes had a steely glint. The two subsequent meetings had only deepened her conviction that the man was heartless. On the one occasion, he’d ridden ruthlessly into the bailey, scattering playing children and on the other, he’d kicked a hapless puppy that had wandered into his path.
What had her cousin been thinking? Isobel sighed as she led her still-chortling helpers deeper into the woods. She knew what he had been thinking. Roger de Lacy, recently become Seventh Baron Halton and Lord of Bowland, had only taken her in two months ago because she had no other living relatives when her parents were killed in a carriage accident in Conwy. Her cousin had already been preparing to join King Richard in the Holy Land. His immediate reaction to her arrival was to see her married before he left. Sir Guy was in need of a wife and, as the right-hand man to the Sherriff of Nottingham, would offer her protection.
From what, Isobel was not sure. In the short time she had been in Nottinghamshire, she’d heard nothing but horrific reports on its sheriff…that he was cruel, calculating and cold. He sounded like someone a person needed protecting from. It also seemed to Isobel that being the cousin of a titled lord and living in the castle of his huge estate would offer protection enough, but Roger had been adamant. She was to be married before he left.
“My lady.” One of the maids interrupted her thinking. “Where are ye leading us?”
Isobel stopped and looked around. The relatively worn path they’d been on had turned into nothing more than a deer trail. The forestation was denser as well, leaving little light filtering through the pines to encourage anything except bracken to grow. Certainly, there were no holly bushes. She sighed again. She should have been paying more attention to what she was doing.
“I must have taken a wrong turn.” Since she had not ventured this far before, she hoped they were not lost. The maids were already looking at her skeptically so Isobel glanced at the ground. “You might as well pick up the cones while we head back to the road. Lord de Lacy likes the crackling sounds they make in the fire.”
At least that would keep them occupied. Isobel swept back strands of her auburn hair that seemed to constantly be escaping her barbette and tried to get a sense of direction. As a child in Wales, she’d spent enough time playing along mountain sides and foraging among the trees to know that the best worn animal trails usually led to water. Roger’s castle was near the River Erewash. If she could find a stream, they could follow its natural flow toward the river. She looked at the ground again. Not too far away, a slightly wider path led toward the right.
“This way,” she said, sounding more confident than she felt.
The maids, who had invented a quick game of whom could find the largest cones, seemed content to follow her lead. Isobel glanced up as they walked. At least the trees were becoming sparser. Sunlight cast a mottled glow through the leaves. And, to her relief, a few minutes later she heard the sound of water tumbling over rock.
“This way,” she said again, heading for the sound. As they started to round several large boulders, she saw what looked like a small, grassy glade, and then she stopped.
A young man was lying face down on the ground. Strands of long, brown hair and a part of his red cape floated in the stream bed, but he was not moving.
• ♥ •
Roger was waiting for them when Isobel and her party arrived at the castle with the unconscious man in the back of a wagon she’d sent two of the maids to procure. They obviously had been overly animated in their telling of the odd discovery, since not only had a stableman brought the wagon, but a number of squires and pages came with him, as well. Altogether, almost a score of people had gathered at the glade and another score or so had followed the procession up the road to the castle.
Roger dismissed most of them with a wave of his hand and then peered over the wagon’s sideboards at the stranger. “Has he awakened at all?”
“He moaned once when the men were lifting him,” Isobel said, “and his eyelids fluttered, but did not open.” She didn’t add that she wondered what color his eyes were.
While she had been waiting for the wagon to arrive, she’d had time to study him. He appeared not much older than her twenty years. The long brown hair had golden streaks, probably from the sun since his face was tanned. That face was strong and angular, cheekbones high, nose straight, and jaw firm. The body beneath the cape—she’d only pushed it back to make sure there were no bleeding wounds—was equally firm. The wet shirt that clung to him defined a broad chest, hard, flat belly, and sculpted biceps. He was so perfectly molded that she’d glanced around the glade, wondering if the Welsh myths of faeries were true and the stranger were really a Fae prince meant to lure her to the Otherworld, safe from a marriage she didn’t want. Yule was almost here, and the auld gods granted wishes on feast days…at least, according to the stories that the Celts loved to tell, much to the disproval of priests and bishops.
Isobel jolted back to reality at the sound of her cousin’s voice.
“From that lump on his head, it’s understandable he has not wakened.” Roger glanced over him. “His clothes appear tailored, his boots not overly scuffed. The empty scabbard and knife sheath are plain, but well-sewn. No coin was found on him, I suppose?”
Isobel shook her head. She hadn’t thought to look for a coin purse or, for that matter, how well his clothing was made either. He was well-made. And a stark contrast to Sir Guy whose gut showed serious signs of over-indulgence, as did his heavy jowls. She closed her eyes briefly, but Sir Guy’s overbearing image only intensified and she snapped them open again. “I suspect the stranger was robbed.”
Roger nodded. “Quite possibly. There is a roaming band of outlaws lead by a man called Robin Hood that the sheriff has been trying to catch for almost two years, but they manage to elude him by blending in with the forest.”
She’d heard the name once or twice, but hadn’t paid much mind since the woods near her cousin’s castle were patrolled. Or, at least, she thought they were. Someone had definitely attacked this man. “Should we not send for a healer?”
“I suppose that would be wise.” Roger turned to the three soldiers standing beside him. “Fleming. Get the physician from the village. John and Burke, carry this man to one of the guestrooms on the first floor and then stand guard.”
Isobel raised her brows. “You are posting guards? The stranger poses no threat.”
“Not in his present condition,” her cousin answered, “but we do not know who he is. He could also be violent when he awakes. I take no chances.”
What her cousin said could be true, given that the handsome stranger had a warrior’s body and strong, callused hands—she’d noticed those too—that belied hours of training with weapons, but somehow she doubted he was violent. While she had been waiting in the glade, holding those hands and talking to him, encouraging him to stay alive, the thought of violence had never occurred to her. Indeed, by the time the wagon arrived, she’d felt more and more drawn to the stranger, almost convincing herself that he had truly been sent as a gift to help her escape Sir Guy.
Yule was the season for gifts, after all.
• ♥ •
William shifted and sank more deeply into the soft feather down of the mattress beneath him, slowly becoming aware of warmth and flickering light and the murmur of low voices.
Her voice.
His angel.
As his consciousness returned, William keep his eyes closed, partially to listen to the soothing sound of the angel’s voice, but also to try and recall the events that led to wherever he was at the moment.
He was part of a small group of men his uncle, the Earl of Huntingdon, had entrusted to investigate whether the rumors were true that Prince John Lackland was trying to usurp the throne from Richard while the king was on crusade. There was evidence to that fact and the Sheriff of Nottingham, given his aspirations for both title and land, was quite likely involved with the treasonous effort. But William’s uncle had not been able to prove a direct link between the two, and he thought the sheriff was using a go-between for contact. Sir Guy of Gisborne was highly suspected of being that go-between since he was the sheriff’s henchman and both were utterly ruthless and greedy.
Will had been on assignment to follow Guy’s movements to see if anyone else might be involved in the plot when he’d been confronted by a group of peasants brandishing pitchforks and hoes. His first thought had been to draw his sword and fend the lot of them off, a relatively easy task for one as skilled as he was. His second thought rendered the first one useless. The men were poor crofters who probably had a passel of children to support, so he’d given them his coin and turned away.
He hadn’t expected one of them would hit him on his head from behind and steal his sword and knife, as well.
“When do you think he will wake?” the angel’s voice asked.
“Likely when we throw a basin of cold water on him,” a rough male voice answered. “It works every time.”
William decided this might be a good time to open his eyes. Moaning a bit as though he had just awakened, he allowed his eyes to flutter and then he looked up.
Mon Dieu. That lovely female voice did belong to an angel. She hovered over him, long hair the color of rich mahogany framing an ivory, heart-shaped face with slanted eyes of dark forest green and plush, rosy lips. Kissable lips. Another part of him stirred to life.
“You are finally awake!”
William smiled at her. “I am, but I am not sure where I am.”
“You are at Baron Roger de Lacy’s castle. I am his cousin, Isobel,” she answered.
“And who are ye?” the rough male voice asked.
William noticed the man wore a soldier’s uniform and wondered if he were under guard. “I am Sir William, knight to Robert Locksley, the Earl of Huntingdon.” He smiled again at Isobel. “I wish I could say I was at your service, my lady, but at the moment I fear I would not be much use.”
She smiled back. “Well, you will be our guest until you are well enough to travel.”
“Thank you.” The idea was certainly tempting. “Are you sure I will not be imposing?”
“Not at all. This close to Yule, there will be plenty of guests visiting, especially since my cousin will be leaving for Outremer after the holidays. You will probably not even be noticed.” A little furrow appeared between her brows. “We found you lying in a creek bed not far away. Do you remember what happened?”
William paused. He certainly did not want to admit that he’d been a fool and allowed a group of famers to overcome him. “Brigands. They came from behind.” At least, that part was true.
The furrow deepened slightly as Isobel looked worried. “Do you suppose it was Robin Hood and his men? I had not thought they would stray so close to the castle.”
“I am sure you are right,” William replied quickly. “I doubt you have anything to fear from that band.”
“Still, it probably is not safe for anyone to travel alone.”
William nodded. “It is always wiser to travel in groups.”
“So why were ye alone?” the soldier asked.
William hesitated once more. His mission was secret and he certainly wasn’t going to say anything that would arouse suspicion, especially if he was under guard. “My uncle had business in Nottingham that needed attending. I was on my way home to Barnsdale.”
The soldier narrowed his eyes. “I heard Robert Locksley was on Crusade.”
William gave him an even look. For a soldier to be asking so many questions meant he was probably one of Baron de Lacy’s most trusted. “He is away. That is why I represented him at Nottingham.”
“Do stop interrogating Sir William,” Isobel said to the man. “Please go and advise my cousin that our guest is awake.”
The soldier widened his stance and crossed his arms. “I will no’ leave ye alone with him.”
Isobel rolled her eyes in a very unladylike—and un-angelic—manner. “Oh, for the love of Bridgid! I hardly think I am going to be accosted. Go.”
He didn’t budge. “If word got out to your betrothed that I left ye alone with a man—”
“Who will tell him?” Isobel asked.
William hardly heard the question. He felt like a horse had suddenly kicked him in the gut. The angel was betrothed?
The man’s expression turned mulish. “Gisborne would have my head.”
The horse’s second hoof struck William in the chest. His heart actually skipped a beat. His lovely angel—no, not his—was betrothed to Gisborne? It could not be. William was about to ask to clarify when Isobel did it for him.
“Believe me, Sir Guy will never hear of this.”
This time, his heart skipped several beats. What horrible irony that what he’d been directed to do—find any possible collusion regarding the sheriff and Gisborne—had led directly to the lovely angel.
Perhaps she was not an angel after all. Anyone agreeing to marry Gisborne—even if her cousin had arranged it—had to have some inkling into the man’s character.
Isobel de Lacy was not in the first blush of maidenhood—a fact that counted in her favor as far as William was concerned—nor did she appear to be naïve. She didn’t give herself airs either, but did she have ambitious sights? He didn’t know.
William sighed. In any event, he would be wise not to trust her. He’d already made that mistake with the peasants who robbed him and left him for dead.
He would take no more chances.