It was two days before he saw her again. Or rather she ran into him.
He was walking down a hall when a person raced around the corner and banged into his chest plate. He didn't know who it was until he grabbed her shoulders to keep her from falling.
It was his beautiful Lady! His beautiful Lady with a bloody nose! His alarm grew that she may have attackers behind her before she reached down with a slender finger and wiped her blood from his chest plate. Again, she did not seem to realize the pain that must have caused as she reached into her pocket for a handkerchief.
"Hide me," she whispered urgently as voices came down the hall she emerged from. Navarre was speechless, but could follow commands when he heard them. He grabbed her hand, rushed to the nearest empty room, and pulled his Lady inside.
She made sure to lock it as he closed the door. He dared not even look at her as he stood behind her. She ignored him and held her ear close to the door, handkerchief to her nose, and listened intently. He heard the Bishop voice giving orders as the group passed the door. When the group had gone past a full minute ago, she sighed. She removed the handkerchief and sniffed, before returning it.
"I apologize!" he said, feeling an alien emotion that would be called embarrassment.
"It wasn't your fault," she gave a grin from behind the handkerchief, "I was running too fast, and you are as strong as an oak. I could no sooner be angry at a tree for standing, then at you." He felt a little better, perhaps flattered she thought him strong, but still the reigning embarrassment.
"Regardless," he said, "I'm sorry to have caused you any pain." She looked a little confused at this, and brought her eyebrows together. But the handkerchief ruined the effect of her seriousness. She seemed resilient.
"Thank you Captain Navarre," she said softly, before quickly turning to unlock the door and leave. As she had her hand on the handle and was pulling it open, Navarres arm made a rash decision. He reached over her shoulder and slammed the door shut again. His Lady flipped around quickly, fueled with anger. She drew back her hand to slap him, but he caught her wrist.
"Please my lady, tell me your name," he begged.
"You just want my name?" she asked suspiciously, narrowing her angered, but strongly fearful eyes. Her nose had begun bleeding again, the handkerchief clutched in her hand that he was holding in his. Not trusting his voice in the face of her fear, he only nodded.
"Isabeau D'Anjou," she said.
"Isabeau," Navarre whispered reverently, releasing her wrist, and lifting his hand a fraction. He wanted to touch her face.
But he spied a look of fear in her eye and it was jarring. He yanked his hand away from the door like it were a hot coal. She opened it and slipped out, but he quickly grabbed her wrist again, leaning against the stoney door frame.
He didn't want her to leave!
He searched for something to say.
"That wouldn't be Count D'Anjou would it?" he asked stoically, his feelings were strong, but locked deep within. She nodded with a fearful, thoughtful stare. She brought the handkerchief back to her nose.
"My father, did you know him?"
"Of him, but I understand he met his death fighting Saracens at Antioch."
"That was the man."
"I'm sorry for your loss," he said, shifting his grip to hold her hand. Her lips turned upwards as she rolled her eyes.
"Unfortunately Sir, it was no great loss to me," she pulled her hand from his grasp and set off down the hall, the way she came.
He pushed off the door frame to walk alongside her. Just to be near her.
"I suppose I heard rumors he was ill tempered," Navarre admitted.
"Shocking sir," she said with that twinkle back in her eye and her impish smile returned, "speaking ill of the dead. You'll surely be cursed for that." He would walk through all manner of curses to see that smiling face. He'd walk through the worst of them if she hadn't been covering part of it with the handkerchief.
"I'm starting to think, madam, that you like being shocked." Her quiet laugh echoed down the stoney hallway, before she covered her mouth, a flicker of nervousness in her eye.
"What frightens you so?" Navarre asked, grabbing her hand and bringing them to a stop again. He examined her soulful blue eyes thoroughly.
"Nothing," she lied. Navarre raised his eyebrows and waited. "Alright," she sighed, "but you mustn't tell anyone. Swear it."
"I swear to you my honor as a captain," Navarre offered. Isabeau took a step closer to Navarre and whispered softly. So much so, he had to lean towards her to hear. His heart thumped loudly.
"The Bishop. He fills me with unease, but he won't leave me alone." Navarre nodded curtly, he had the same feeling of the man. Unease, and deep seated dread. To think that his Lady was living in that fear all this time. That explained the library, and just now.
"Would you like assistance?" he asked, hopefully.
"Oh? Would you check around all my corners for the man?" She teased.
"I'd check your path for trees as well," he said simply. Isabeau stifled a laugh into a snort. They were still holding hands. "Maybe, we could leave the city. I could teach you to defend yourself," he said. Isabeau raised an eyebrow thoughtfully, then narrowed her eyes in suspicion.
"And what if I need to defend myself from you?" She asked. Navarre's heart rebelled at such a thought. His mind protested against such blasphemy. His glacial eye grew wide and affronted as he shook his head.
"Never!" he hissed. The hurt must have shown in his eye, for she gave a serene smile and readjusted her hands in his.
"I mean nothing personal, Captain Navarre. But you must understand that beauty is a curse sometimes, and I have been very lucky so far."
"Then let me help you, please my lady," Navarre begged, in the same tone he begged her name. She chuckled softly.
"Well, since I seem doomed to embarrass myself whenever we meet, I may as well. What do you suggest?"