Carol Townend

by Lady Isobel's Champion

  Isobel found herself touching Elise’s arm, seeking a reassurance that she suspected Elise was not willing to give. Elise responded pleasantly enough, but her manner was formal. She is keeping her distance. Something—someone—has hurt her, and she is unwilling to trust me.

  ‘Until I arrived at the Abbey, the only time I met Count Lucien was at our betrothal. I was eleven, he...he was fifteen. Elise, I am afraid...afraid...’ Isobel was appalled to hear her voice crack as she remembered her poor mother and her vain attempts to provide a male heir for Turenne. The strain robbed Mama of her life. Isobel was the only child to have survived. Attending Lady Maude’s various lyings-in, she had stood by helplessly as her mother’s face had distorted in agony. The screams had cut her to the quick. Lady Maude’s death had left Isobel with a dread of childbirth. I have to overcome my fears. I have to!

  ‘You are thinking of Lady Maude, I believe,’ Elise said.

  ‘I...yes.’

  ‘Have you discussed your fears with the Abbess?’

  Isobel stared at the rows of fluted columns that marched round the cloisters. ‘I tried. The Abbess told me to put my trust in God. I can’t help thinking that it’s all very well for a nun, sworn to a life of chastity and prayer, to tell me to put my faith in God. It is not so easy when you have watched your mother’s life ebb away.’

  ‘What happened to your mother may not happen to you.’

  Isobel stared blindly at the blue silk on her knee. ‘I know that, of course, but...’

  ‘Your fear lingers.’

  Isobel gave a jerky nod.

  Elise set another stitch before looking up again. ‘There are ways to prevent conception, my lady.’

  Isobel stared. ‘I can see that you know them. Please, continue...’

  ‘Some methods are better than others. My lady, if you wish to make enquiries, a local apothecary might be a good place to start. When you are married, you might find one and—’ A soft footfall made Elise break off, two nuns had entered the cloisters. ‘Later, I shall tell you later.’

  Isobel leaned in to whisper. ‘Do you know where to find an apothecary in Troyes?’

  Elise nodded.

  ‘You must show me, as soon as possible. This afternoon.’

  ‘What about the Abbess?’

  Isobel frowned at the nuns processing along the path, at the tall columns ranging around the cloister. ‘I have had enough of being fenced in. Besides, I have other errands in town.’

  Elise smoothed the blue fabric on her knee and resumed sewing. ‘Oh?’

  ‘I am curious about the tournament at the Field of the Birds. I need to know how to get there.’ Fearing that Elise might refuse to accompany her if she knew Lucien had forbidden her to attend, Isobel decided to say nothing of that. Nor was she going to mention the stolen relic and her desire to find it and return it to Conques. Not unless she had to.

  ‘The Field of the Birds?’ Elise looked thoughtful. ‘You might ask Count Lucien. His device—’

  ‘Is a raven. I know. I forgot to ask him.’ Isobel bent diligently over her needlework, ashamed at how easily the lie slipped past her lips. ‘Elise, did you know that Count Lucien is a tourney champion?’

  ‘I had heard something of the sort.’

  Isobel heaved a wistful sigh. ‘I’ve never been to a tournament.’

  ‘Count Henry’s holding a joust at Troyes Castle on Twelfth Night.’

  Isobel shook her head. ‘I am reliably told that will be a bland affair. The tournament in the Field of the Birds is expected to be more exacting. More exciting. That’s the one I want to see.’

  ‘You want to watch Count Lucien. My lady, I advise you to wait for Twelfth Night. It’s not for nothing that the King of France disapproves of tournaments.’

  ‘It’s a pity you don’t know the way to the Field of the Birds, but no matter, I know where to ask.’

  Elise gave her a long look. ‘Why does that not surprise me?’ she murmured.

  The nuns sank on to a stone bench directly opposite, and one of them drew a psalter from her sleeve. They looked altogether too settled for Isobel’s liking.

  She pitched her voice low. ‘Are they spying on us?’

  Elise gave a small smile. ‘I am not sure, but it looks that way.’

  ‘We won’t get out this morning then, not with them there. But later, I should like you to take me to that apothecary. Will you?’

  ‘If you wish.’

  ‘My thanks. At the same time, I can make enquiries about the way to the Field of the Birds.’ Isobel frowned at the nuns. ‘We’ll wait until this afternoon when the sisters are in Office. As long as we are back before everyone gathers in the refectory for supper, no one will miss us.’

  * * *

  ‘That was easy,’ Isobel said, swinging her cloak about her shoulders as she and Elise slipped through the gate by the Portress’s Lodge.

  ‘It may not be as easy getting back in,’ Elise pointed out, closing the convent gate behind them.

  ‘We can worry about that later,’ Isobel said. She was half-afraid Elise would lose her nerve and change her mind about accompanying her, and she was determined to get to the Black Boar before that happened. ‘First, I shall discover the way to the Field of the Birds, and then you can take me to that apothecary.’

  They made their way up the narrow street in the direction of the market, wrangling half-heartedly with one another. Without being told in so many words, Elise had surmised that the Count would be displeased if Isobel attended the tournament at the Field of the Birds.

  ‘I really don’t know why I agreed to come with you,’ she said. ‘Lord d’Aveyron is bound to take this very ill.’

  ‘You are doing this because you have become my friend,’ Isobel said. ‘And because I need your help.’

  ‘I am not so certain you need anyone’s help. I am confident you would manage without me. However, you should not be walking abroad on your own.’ Elise shook her head. ‘My lady, you must take more care, innocence may not always be your shield.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean only that you should be asking Count Lucien about the Field of the Birds. He won’t like the idea of you roaming the town any more than the Abbess liked you riding out to Ravenshold.’

  Isobel steeled herself to resist all arguments. And she refused to confess that the Count had already forbidden her to attend the tournament at the Field of the Birds. It was odd though, the more Elise insisted how unsuitable it was for a lady such as herself to think about attending without her lord’s approval, the more keenly Isobel wanted to go. And not only because she wanted to watch out for the thief. Lucien’s prowess on the tourney field was well known. She longed to see him in action.

  As the Abbey de Notre-Dame-aux-Nonnains fell behind, her mood lifted. Troyes was filling fast, the population seemed to have tripled overnight, with merchants pouring in from all quarters. There were men in exotic damask tunics—the cloth woven with intricate patterns that Isobel knew must come from Byzantium and beyond. Girls swathed in silk from head to toe peered out at the world through dark, almond-shaped eyes. Dusky-skinned guards marched alongside pack animals. Mules brayed. Ladies were carried through the narrow streets in litters, apparently more fragile than the Venetian glass their husbands intended to sell. Hordes of people swirled this way and that, chattering like starlings in languages that were utterly alien.

  Diving into a rush of townsfolk streaming down the street, Isobel went with the flow until the sign of the Black Boar was swinging overhead. The tavern door was shut as it had been before, and the shutters were firmly closed. Black smoke floated out of a louvre near the roof ridge. The door opened, and a youth staggered out on a wild flurry of laughter.

  ‘There!’ Isobel was delighted to have found the inn again. With the streets so full, it had crossed her mind that she might lose her way. Beside her, Elise had fallen ominously quiet. ‘Elise, what’s the matter?’

  ‘My lady, you...you are not thinking of going in t
hat place?’

  Elise’s eyes were startled. Shocked. Isobel felt a pang of disquiet. From the outside, the Black Boar looked much like many other wayside taverns. Slightly squalid. The daub was falling away from the lower walls, and it could have done with a fresh coat of whitewash, but that closed door aside, there was nothing to mark it out as a place where men paid for anything other than food and lodgings...

  Elise knows about the Black Boar.

  ‘You know what this place is,’ Isobel said quietly.

  Elise caught her hand. ‘I know it is no place for the future Countess d’Aveyron. My lady, don’t go in. We would be far safer finding that apothecary.’

  * * *

  Lucien was riding towards the Abbey in the company of his squire, Joris. Count Henry’s steward had informed him that a bedchamber overlooking the canal would shortly be free. The chamber would not be ready until tomorrow—the coming fair was to blame for that, the Count’s palace was packed. At such short notice, Lucien counted himself lucky that decent lodgings had been found for his betrothed at all. And thanks to a sudden indisposition on the part of a cousin of the Countess of Champagne, a small solar was also available.

  Isobel will be pleased.

  Their horses picked their way between porters with trolleys and handcarts. Chattering housewives squeezed by with baskets over their arms. Scavenging strays wove in and out of the horses’ legs.

  Lucien was looking forward to watching Isobel’s face when he told her about the apartment. He wanted to see those green eyes light up. Much as she might feel affection for the nuns in the south, she had had enough of convent life. He couldn’t blame her.

  He had almost reached the Abbey when he saw them. Isobel and Elise—the shy girl he had met at the convent—were sneaking out of the gate. Drawing rein, Lucien watched them drag up their hoods and scurry into the throng. What are they up to?

  He waited until they had reached the end of the street before he dug his heels into Demon’s sides. As he did so, he bit back a grin and reminded himself that he must take care, that women were not to be trusted. If he had learned nothing else from Morwenna, it was that. Women are unreliable.

  ‘Who are those women, my lord?’ Joris asked, following his gaze.

  ‘The one on the right is my betrothed, Lady Isobel de Turenne. The other is her maid, Elise.’

  Realising that he and Joris were somewhat conspicuous on their horses, Lucien dismounted and motioned Joris to do the same.

  ‘We are following them, my lord? Why don’t you hail them?’

  Lucien shook his head. ‘If I did that, I might never learn what she’s up to.’

  ‘Why don’t you simply ask her, my lord?’

  Lucien sent his squire a pitying look and pressed on. Joris had a lot to learn.

  It soon became clear where Isobel was heading. It was hard to credit that a gently bred girl like Lady Isobel de Turenne would knowingly return to the Black Boar, but he would swear they were heading that way. He had warned her off, and she was taking no notice.

  ‘Stubborn,’ he muttered, as they entered the square and the Black Boar came into view a few yards ahead. As he had predicted, Isobel and Elise were outside. ‘She’s a stubborn wench.’ Isobel’s tenacity left him surprisingly sanguine, more intrigued than angry. What is she up to?

  Isobel and Elise were arguing. Lucien couldn’t catch the words, but it didn’t take a mind-reader to work out what the problem was. Elise was reluctant to enter. Elise had sense. ‘And a good thing too,’ he murmured.

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘Never mind.’ Closing the distance between him and his stubborn betrothed, Lucien thrust Demon’s reins at Joris. ‘Wait here.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  He reached the tavern moments after Isobel and her maid had slipped inside. Elise might have sense, but Isobel...

  The inn fell quiet as he entered. The fug was worse than before. Smoke stung his eyes and caught at the back of his throat. Lord, what a place. The air reeked of boiled cabbages and garlic.

  Isobel—his future countess, with her unwilling companion trailing after her—marched boldly up to the serving hatch. Sensibly, Elise had swathed her face with her veil, she looked like a girl from Araby. Not so Isobel. She tossed back the hood of her cloak, giving all who cared to look her way a clear sight of that open, innocent face.

  Doubtless, Isobel thought she would be safe because she had done no wrong. Leaning against a wooden pillar, Lucien crossed his arms and prepared to wait. Isobel must be made to see that convent naivety was no protection, not in here. His bride-to-be needed to be taught a sharp lesson. The local girls would not take well to the arrival of two fresh and pretty rivals, and Isobel and Elise were drawing all eyes. Thank God I saw them. They will want rescuing. He was almost looking forward to it.

  Isobel was speaking to the potboy—Lucien caught the gleam of silver as she pressed something into his hand. It flashed in on him what she was doing. Through the smoke haze, Lucien saw her lips move but customers were talking again, a low buzz of interest that drowned out what she was saying.

  Lucien didn’t have to hear her to know that she was asking about the coming tournament. I told her not to attend. I was thinking of her safety and yet here she is, flouting my authority. More and more of Isobel’s character was being revealed with every passing moment. She was stubborn, she was foolhardy, and above all she was disobedient.

  The ramifications of Lucien’s hasty first marriage had shown him the importance of discipline. Of obedience. His father had never forgiven him for the dishonour he had done Isobel in marrying Morwenna. Since that time, Lucien had done his best to make up for his youthful inadequacies. He strove to conduct himself with honour.

  He bitterly regretted that his father would not see that he was at last fulfilling his promise to Isobel. He sighed. It was a pity the bride his father had chosen showed such signs of waywardness. Lucien had expected that a lady, a convent-bred bride, would be above reproach. And here she was, in the town brothel, trying to bribe information out of a potboy.

  Somewhere in the shadows to the right of the serving hatch, a woman—a bosomy redhead—let off a stream of invective. Her voice was coarse, and her words weren’t fit for a lady’s ears. Isobel turned towards her just as she charged out of the shadows.

  Lucien wanted his second marriage to be an improvement on his first, and to that end, he must ensure Isobel recognised his authority. Marriage was all about authority. That was the mistake he had made with Morwenna, he had left it too late before asserting his authority. True, he had been little more than a stripling when he had wed her—Morwenna had been his senior by five years—but it had been a bad error. By the time he had realised his mistake, a pattern had been established and Morwenna had become too set in her ways to change.

  That wasn’t going to happen where Isobel was concerned.

  As the redhead’s magnificent bosom heaved, Lucien pushed away from the pillar.

  The redhead looked belligerently at Isobel. ‘Who the hell are you?’ Her voice was sharp as a saw.

  Isobel was such an innocent she smiled. ‘You are speaking to me, madame?’

  The redhead set her hands on her hips, her lip curled. ‘If you are looking for work, you are wasting your time. We have enough girls. Good girls. Girls who know their business. You don’t look as though you would know your way round a monk’s—’

  Lucien stepped into the light of a spitting candle and cleared his throat. ‘Ladies, a word if I may?’

  Isobel whirled round. Elise went white and ducked behind the potboy.

  ‘Ladies, have you forgotten our appointment?’ Digging into his pouch, he tossed a couple of pennies in the direction of the redhead and offered Isobel his arm. Isobel lifted her nose, but she took his arm. The redhead scrambled for the coins.

  Elise was hanging her head in shame. Not so Isobel. No sooner had she stepped over the threshold than she snatched her hand from his arm. ‘You followed us,’ she said, eyes spa
rking green fire. ‘You have no right.’

  Lucien set his jaw. So much for thanks, did she not realise that the redhead had been on the point of tearing her limb from limb? ‘You are my betrothed—that gives me the right. Particularly since you came here against my express wishes.’

  Isobel set her hands on her hips in very much the way the redhead had done. ‘You didn’t tell me to avoid this place.’ Her eyes lowered. ‘Not in so many words.’

  Taking her chin, he made her look at him. ‘That is true as far as it goes, but you could have been in no doubt that I did not wish you to return. You had no male escort to protect you! And as for you enquiring about the tourney—that is flagrant disobedience.’ He sighed. ‘Incidentally, did you learn anything?’

  Green eyes clashed with his, those cherry-coloured lips were tightly closed. Lady Isobel of Turenne was damnably attractive when she was angry. Lucien felt a powerful and extremely inconvenient urge to kiss her.

  Aware that Joris and Elaine were watching them with some interest, he released Isobel’s chin and once again offered her his arm. ‘Come, my lady, we cannot quarrel in the street.’

  Glittering eyes held his before she reluctantly put her hand on his sleeve.

  Disappointment churned in Lucien’s guts. In her own way, Isobel was showing every sign of becoming as inconvenient a wife as Morwenna had been. Where was the demure, obedient lady he had hoped for? He had come in search of her, wanting to bring her pleasure and somehow, they were quarrelling.

  It is early days. I must not judge her too soon.

  ‘I had hoped for a peaceful marriage,’ he said. ‘Are my hopes misplaced?’

  Her mouth twitched, her expression lightened. Mon Dieu, she only had to look as though laughter was a breath away, and Lucien found himself warming to her. Morwenna had rarely laughed. Had that been part of the trouble? Morwenna had taken everything so seriously...

  ‘Misplaced? I do hope not.’ She looked sideways at him. ‘You are not a tyrant, are you, my lord?’ She gave Joris a measuring look. ‘Are you Lord d’Aveyron’s squire?’