“You are not a child,” he finished for her with a smile. He cradled her cheek in his hand. “Trust me, love. I know that.” He kissed her sweetly on the lips, and
she allowed it, kissing him back. She wanted to be strong, to make him tell her the truth, but she couldn’t be certain he hadn’t told it already. She didn’t want to fight with him, not now.
“Be careful,” she said, brusque with feeling, fighting the near-compulsion to throw herself into his arms again as he drew back.
“I will,” he promised. Brushing a final kiss across her brow, he left her, following another man into the courtyard.
She went back to the hall where the corpses were being carried away. Glynnis and Hannah were huddled together in a corner, Hannah obviously in tears. Isabel’s heart ached as well, remembering Susannah in this room the day before, how happy and pretty she had been. How could she be gone? What sort of monster could have wanted to hurt her?
Mother Bess was sitting by the fire, so close the cinders were in danger of setting her skirts aflame. Kevin had said the bodies had been found barely a stone’s throw from her door. “Mother Bess,” Isabel said, going to join her. “Are you well? Is there anything you need?”
The old woman looked up, startled, then she smiled. “Come and sit with me, my lady.” She took Isabel’s hand between her own. “To think that I should live so long,” she said softly, a tremor in her voice.
“You will live a great deal longer, Mother,” Isabel said with a smile.
“Brave little girl.” She gave her hand a squeeze before she let it go.
“I’m not a little girl anymore,” Isabel answered. “And I don’t feel very brave.”
“Not to worry, child,” the old woman said with a nod. “Your mother had the sight; her vision was true.” She touched Isabel’s cheek. “But you are such a pretty thing.”
“Thank you.” In truth, she had no idea what the dear old creature was talking about, but she supposed it really didn’t matter. After all that had happened, she felt like she might babble a little herself.
“Your mother knew you would be pretty,” Mother Bess said, searching her face with eyes grown cloudy with age. “She said you would charm the wolf.”
“The wolf?” Isabel repeated. “Mother, the wolf is dead. Simon killed him, remember?”
“The wolf cannot die, my darling. You know that. Even your fool of a father must have told you that.” The last of the bodies was carried past them, the soldier with his throat torn out, and they both made the sign of the cross. “Much that is dead can still rise.”
“My father would have called that superstition, Mother,” Isabel said with a smile. “Is that why you call him a fool?”
“The Norman would not see fire burning in his bed,” the old woman scoffed. “But your mother loved him; she would have no other.” A tear slid down her withered cheek. “She knew he would give her our champion.”
A cold tremor passed through her, though why she couldn’t have said. “I think you must be upset, Mother Bess,” she said. “You’re not talking sense. Let me get you some broth or some wine—”
“You need not be afraid, child,” the old woman said, catching her by the wrist with surprising strength. “You will beat him in the end.” With her free hand, she caressed Isabel’s cheek. “But you will mourn your man, I think. I grieve for that young man.”
“Simon?” Any other time, she would have humored the woman without paying her any real mind. But tonight her words were so near to Isabel’s own fears, they seemed to reach her very heart. “Do you mean Simon?”
“He has a mark on him as well,” Mother Bess nodded. “But I cannot read it.”
“Why do you say I will mourn him?” Isabel demanded. “What do you think will hurt him?”
“The wolf, my child,” the old woman said, sounding surprised by the question. “The wolf will bear no rivals.”
“’Tis a dark, ill night, old mother,” Brautus said. Isabel had been so engrossed in what Mother Bess was saying, she hadn’t noticed him behind her. “A cottage alone might make a poor shelter, don’t you think?”
The old woman drew back from Isabel, glaring at him. “Tell me what you mean,” Isabel insisted, more confused than ever. “What wolf?”
“You should burn in hell, old man,” Mother Bess said. “You and your fool of a master.”
“You should have some soup and give your bones a rest,” Brautus answered her. “And your tongue as well.”
“She knows nothing?” the old woman demanded, gesturing at Isabel. “You have told her nothing?”
“And what should I have told her?” he scoffed. “My lady is too old for fairy tales.”
“Maybe I’m not,” Isabel interrupted. In truth, whatever the ancient crone thought she should know, it didn’t sound like any fairy tale she had ever heard. “Tell me.”