She focused on him again. Encouraged, he continued, “I regret—I bring you bad tidings. Your brother died during a raid. I got him to the surgeon, did what I could, but his injuries were too severe.”
He paused and swallowed hard. The scene of carnage after that raid at Venlo had never left him. The blood, the sickly color of Edward’s face, the sheer horror of it all. He’d been so shocked by his friend’s wounds that he’d not even noticed his own. Until the surgeon had pointed it out—after which point, he remembered but little.
He cleared his throat. “Before your brother died, he bade me take good care of you.”
A sharply indrawn breath from Pike distracted him. Of course, the man would not welcome any interference in his dealings with Isobel. But Will was bound by a deathbed promise, and too hardened by his recent experiences to give a farthing for Pike’s feelings.
Still no response from Isobel, who continued staring dazedly around her, as if she knew not where she was. Had she any idea of the significance of what he’d just said?
He turned to Pike. “I have Edward’s rapier outside, strapped to my horse. Mayhap that will push the message home. Shall I have my saddlebags brought in at the same time, if your offer of a bed for the night still stands?”
Not that he had any great desire to spend more time in the company of Master Pike and his insane patient, but weariness and pain were starting to take their toll.
The gigantic manservant fetched his belongings, but Will refused to entrust Edward’s sword to him. He’d had a box made to accommodate it, and carried it reverently into the parlor, like a sacred relic. He set the box down in front of Isobel.
She stared at him, avidly. “Sir—what, pray, have you done with my harpsichord?”
“I—” He caught Pike’s attention, but the man just shrugged. “I’ve done nothing. I didn’t come here to speak of musical instruments. Isobel—”
As he looked into her blank but delicate face, his gut twisted. Was he attempting the impossible in making her comprehend her brother’s death? Was he the only one left to mourn Edward’s passing? Pike’s sympathetic expression was unconvincing, and Isobel was trapped in a world of her own—unknowing, unseeing.
Seating himself on the settle beside her, he made a final effort. “Mistress Marston—Isobel—your brother, Edward, is dead. He charged me to give you this, in remembrance of him.”
When she reached for the box, optimism stirred. Until she smiled and exclaimed, “Pandora’s box! I have always wondered what Hope looked like.” She opened the lid.
A tragedy that a woman so clearly out of her wits—and with little in the way of genuine hope—should look to an ancient myth in search of that valuable thing.
Jaw set, Will looked at Pike. “Wherefore does she cite so many classical references?”
Pike shook his head. “There may be reason or connection in what she says, but I have yet to understand it.”
“No!” Will grasped Isobel’s wrist in time to stop her pulling the sharp blade from its scabbard. She seemed startled for a moment, then reached out slowly, and stroked the side of his cheek. He gazed, transfixed, as her face fell. Did she understand what had happened, at last?
“After the Maenads tore him limb from limb, his head floated singing down the river.”
Will recoiled and removed himself to a chair.
“Another classical reference, to Orpheus, I believe.”
“Yes, yes, Master Pike. I know that.” What he didn’t understand was why. Why was she talking in riddles? Why had this lovely woman been reduced to this state, and how? Edward had said nothing of any sickness of the mind. Indeed, he’d portrayed his sister as a handsome, lively, witty and accomplished young woman.
Will had seen too much illness during the Earl of Leicester’s disastrous campaigns in the Lowlands to fear it. He was fascinated by Isobel, while at the same time, consumed with pity. Did anything of the woman Edward had described remain behind those tortured green eyes?
Suddenly her head shot up, her face even whiter than before. “Oh, oh, help me, I beg you!” Her entire body shook with a sudden burst of tears.
He was by her in an instant—had his message about Edward’s death finally penetrated her clouded mind? The urge to take her in his arms was powerful, and deep compassion clutched at his heart. Only—he must remember he had an audience.
“Flinders, fetch Avice. It’s time for Isobel’s medicine. Apologies, Sir William—this is never pretty to witness. But needs must—hysteria will ensue if we fail to calm her this instant.”
An unpleasant scene then followed, in which Isobel’s arms were pinned behind her by Flinders while the woman, Avice, poured some dark, sticky-looking nostrum down her throat. Isobel coughed and choked, then fought with her captor before she was eventually subdued and carried from the room.
Will folded his arms across his chest and raised an eyebrow at Pike, but said nothing. How fortunate he’d agreed to stay the night. The loyalty he owed his friend now belonged to Isobel.
And it looked as if she was damned well going to need it.
Chapter Three
Once upstairs, the noisome Flinders shoved Isobel into her room. Then Avice’s rough hands took over, tugging at her laces, wrenching off her shift, petticoat, and shoes. Shivering, miserable and confused, she was forced into her nightgown and made to lie down.
No sooner had Avice left the room, than Isobel threw off the covers and ran over to wrestle with the door. There was a reason she mustn’t be shut away, something she needed to tell someone. But whom? And why could she not remember what it was so imperative she say?
Relief came when the door opened, but it was Flinders who stood there, not Avice.
She quailed, and backed away. His blotchy face was twisted by an evil leer. He terrified her so, she should scream—but she’d tried that before, and no one ever came.
“I’ll brook no trouble from you tonight, girl.” His voice was a growl.
She couldn’t help herself. “But something terrible has happened. I must go… somewhere, do something.” The tears were back, but the fight within her was ebbing away.
“Get back into your bed, wench.” Flinders took an ominous step closer.
“Don’t you come any nearer. Don’t dare lay a finger on me.” She fought the drowsiness in her limbs and her head.
“Shut your noise.” Flinders dealt her an open-handed slap across the cheek. As she wilted, sobbing loudly now, he picked her up and threw her onto the mattress. Terrified, she readied herself for battle, but he didn’t touch her again, only tucked the covers so tightly around her that her arms were trapped by her sides.
Coffins. Her mind was filled with images of corpses bundled in their winding-sheets, trapped in coffins as she now was in her bed.
Fury lashed at her. She spat curses as Flinders left and locked the door behind him, wishing she could free her hands and throw something. But gradually—as it always did—the medicine took hold of her mind, soothed her pain and lulled her into peaceful oblivion.
Only—she wasn’t quite asleep. Or if she was, she had a wonderful dream.
Orpheus came. He brought a lamp and held it aloft, gazing at her. She wanted to tell him to go away, not to look at her when she was like this. Her tangled hair was spread across the pillow, as they hadn’t bothered to tie her coif over it. Her eyes stung from her tears and must be rimmed with red, and the pain in her cheek portended a bruise. He shouldn’t look at her so intently, so softly, when she was at such a disadvantage, but even though her lips moved to chastise him, no words emerged.