Clearly surprised at her appearance, Lothar examined her suspiciously. Chetwynd was disappointed to see he was not as affected by drink as he had been when they met earlier. It would be more difficult for Isabel to deceive him into believing she was a serving maid who was assigned to feeding prisoners, one of the least desirable jobs available to women.
“Well, look what we have here. I do not remember seeing you in the great hall,” Lothar said to Isabel in a tone no doubt meant to sound inviting.
“I’ve not been serving long. I work mostly in the kitchen,” she answered in a quiet voice, her eyes still aimed at the floor.
“Is that a fact? And why would a handsome wench like you be hidden away in the kitchen? I can’t imagine.”
Lothar moved to stand right in front of Isabel, and his caressing tone of voice made Chetwynd’s skin crawl. Relying on Isabel to act her part, he bit the inside of his mouth to keep from interfering.
“Perhaps you would like to become my private serving wench?” Lothar asked.
Isabel did not answer and kept her eyes on the floor until Lothar shouted, “Look at me, girl. Do you prefer a prisoner in the dungeon to a king?”
Isabel’s head jerked up, and she looked him full in his stern face.
“Such a defiant look! I doubt there are many serving wenches like you,” Lothar exclaimed.
Chetwynd tried to distract him. “Let the wench go about her work, Your Majesty. You came to talk to me. I’m ready to answer all your questions,” he said, struggling to keep his voice as casual as possible.
Without looking at Chetwynd, Lothar grabbed a handful of Isabel’s hair and pulled her toward him. Chetwynd jumped forward, but before he could reach Lothar, one of the guards blocked his way and the other moved in to knock him to the floor.
When Isabel turned toward Chetwynd, Lothar put his arm around her waist and dragged her out of the way. It took both guards to hold down the struggling Chetwynd. One tried to subdue him by hitting him on the head. Chetwynd heard Isabel scream and managed to throw the guards off him and push himself to his feet.
But Chetwynd stopped struggling abruptly when he saw Lothar holding a knife to Isabel’s throat. “You hurt her and you are a dead man,” Chetwynd hissed at Lothar, just before he was hit from behind and knocked to the floor again.
“We will see who is a dead man,” Lothar shouted at the downed prisoner.
Terrified at seeing the guards kick Chetwynd as he lay on the floor, Isabel pushed the knife away with her right hand. Struggling against Lothar, she almost reached her husband. But Lothar managed to grab hold of her and dragged her out of the cell. He kept a tight grip around her waist until the guards had locked Chetwynd’s cell, then pushed her at the guards.
After all the shouting, the silence from the cell was even more frightening for Isabel. “Let me see,” she begged the guards, pointing toward the barred opening.
“Bring her to my chambers,” Lothar ordered. He turned his back and strode ahead of them.
Reluctant to be moved away from Chetwynd’s cell, Isabel dug in her heels. The nearest guard whispered in her ear, “He’s not dead, only unconscious. I doubt he is seriously hurt. You’ll do best to follow the king’s order.” The kind way in which he spoke reassured Isabel about Chetwynd’s condition, and she became limp with relief.
During the struggle with Lothar, Isabel hadn’t paid any attention to the fact that she had cut her hand when she pushed away his knife. By the time they had reached Lothar’s chambers, there was a great deal of blood soaking her apron. When Lothar saw the red stain, his expression changed from anger to shock. The blood drained from his face, and he ordered one of his guards to fetch his physician.
“Let me see your hand,” he ordered, and his voice was so commanding Isabel did as he asked.
To her surprise, Lothar gently examined her hand and located the deep cut in the fleshy area at the base of her thumb.
“I know what I’m doing. I have two sons and have attended to my share of cuts,” he assured her.
By the time the physician arrived, Lothar had wrapped her hand tightly in a clean cloth and seated her in a cushioned chair.
The king’s physician, an ancient man with long white hair, gently unwrapped the blood-soaked cloth. He glared disapprovingly at Lothar and spoke in a harsh voice. “You stopped the bleeding. At least you had the sense to wrap it in a clean cloth, Your Majesty.” He pronounced the title in a disparaging tone.
“It was an accident, Marlin. I’ve never hurt a woman in my life. Is she going to be all right?”
“I don’t believe in accidents. Go fetch me some water.”
Lothar hesitated to obey the curt order, but he and Marlin had been through many battles together, and with a grimace he finally moved away.
The physician leaned forward and whispered to Isabel, “It’s not as bad as it looks. The hand tends to bleed a lot. But no need to let the king know it’s a minor injury.”
“Lord Chetwynd has been beaten. He’s in the dungeon. Could you see to him?” Isabel pleaded with the kindly man who was leaning close.
Marlin straightened up and turned to Lothar, who was returning with a jug of water. “What have you been up to? This serving maid says there is an injured man in the dungeon. Lord Chetwynd, she says. I’ve heard of the knight. Does he need my attention as well?”
“She is no serving
