Carol Townend

by Lady Isobel's Champion

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  ‘This is Joris of Caen,’ Lucien said, belatedly performing the introductions. ‘Joris, this is my betrothed, Lady Isobel de Turenne, and this is Elise of...?’ He looked at Elise.

  ‘Just Elise,’ the girl muttered.

  Isobel was making Joris blush with the power of her smile. ‘Well, Joris? Is my lord a tyrant?’

  ‘No, my lady, of course not, Count Lucien is the most considerate—’

  Lucien clapped his squire on the arm. ‘Enough, Joris. I’ll give you the penny I promised after.’

  ‘My lord?’

  Isobel’s laughter rang round the square, and Lucien found himself smiling. Laughter was indeed a great blessing. As long as his betrothed learned to control her waywardness, there was hope for his second marriage.

  ‘Do you wish to return to the Abbey, my lady?’

  ‘Do we have to? We were going to...’ white teeth caught her lower lip ‘...going to find something to eat.’

  ‘Don’t the nuns feed you?’ Lucien waited for her response, she had been going to say something else, he was sure. However, having caught her in the Black Boar, he could not think that her other business would be anything that need concern him.

  ‘It is Friday, my lord.’ Thick eyelashes swept down, hiding her eyes. ‘And I have been having sinful thoughts all day.’

  Her choice of words—innocent, he was sure—none the less had his gaze dropping to her mouth. To her breasts. Heat sparked through his veins. ‘Oh?’

  ‘I have a strong desire for red meat.’

  ‘I know just the place,’ Lucien heard himself say.

  Chapter Six

  More people had poured into Troyes; the approach to the castle was jammed. Isobel realised they were fortunate to have horses with them. Horses proclaimed high status—particularly a black stallion like Lucien’s. As they progressed up the street, the townsfolk fell back to let them by.

  Preparations were in hand for the Winter Fair, and the market area around St Rémi’s Church had sprung loudly into life. Jostling and noise came from all directions—hammers banged; cartwheels rumbled. A crate fell from a stall with a crash of splintered wood and several rounds of cheese rolled out. The sea of people swept past with the cheesemonger darting hither and yon, desperate to scoop up his wares before anyone else did. Hens squawked; feathers and straw floated on the wind.

  Isobel wasn’t used to such frenetic activity. And the noise! Life in the convent was quiet and orderly. If it were not for Lucien and Joris marching on either side with the horses, she and Elise would be buffeted to bits. I must get used to this. Real life outside a convent. By the time they crossed the canal and entered the Jewish quarter, the crowd had thinned and Isobel could breathe—and think—again.

  She shot Lucien a covert glance, her gaze flickering from his stern, unsmiling mouth to the way he held his charger’s reins, controlling him with the lightest of touches. She had been pleasantly surprised by his forbearance in the Black Boar. He had accused her of disobedience, but thankfully he had not berated her in public. Was the storm yet to break?

  It was obvious Lucien valued self-control. He might be disappointed in her, but a man like Lucien, a champion who had won accolade after accolade, would not stoop to brawling with his betrothed in the street. If chastisement was to come her way, it would likely come later, when they were in private. She had angered him.

  A crumbling Roman wall appeared ahead, farriers and armourers were set up in its shadow. Furnaces glowed like dragons’ eyes. The air rang with the clang of hammer on steel, and the tang of singed hoofs hung in the air.

  Lucien led them around the castle walls to where a pie stand was set up beneath a walnut tree. As the rich and tempting smell of beef reached her, Isobel’s mouth filled with saliva. He had brought them to a pie stand?

  ‘You wish to eat, my lady?’ Lucien’s stern mouth eased as he handed his reins to Joris.

  Isobel’s heart lifted. Lucien knew that he had surprised her, and she would swear he was trying not to smile. ‘I would love to. I’m starving.’

  This last was not strictly true. The sisters knew better than to starve the daughters and wives of their benefactors, but one effect of the restricted convent diet was that it had instilled in Isobel a hearty respect for red meat. Even on a Friday, when meat was forbidden.

  ‘Four pies, if you please,’ Lucien said, handing over the money.

  They sat on a bench beneath the walnut tree, Lucien on Isobel’s right hand, Elise on her left. The pies were hot. Isobel’s tasted better than anything she had eaten in years.

  ‘Good, eh?’ Lucien said. ‘Bartholomew bakes the best beef pies in Champagne.’

  ‘Heaven,’ Isobel murmured, surreptitiously wiping crumbs from her mouth.

  A couple of leaves fluttered down from the tree. Through a gap in the wall, Isobel saw a mill wheel. While she finished her pie, she watched it turning.

  ‘Thank you, my lord, I was hungry.’ She brushed off her hands, faintly embarrassed at the speed with which she had wolfed the pie. A priest was walking by, heading for the castle drawbridge. When he nodded at them, she grimaced. ‘I hope he didn’t see what we were eating, I don’t want the sisters to find out about the beef.’

  Lucien gave her a sharp look. ‘They don’t use the birch on you?’

  ‘No. But there are...penances for various transgressions.’

  He leaned back, studying her. ‘Penances?’

  ‘Minor transgressions require the repetition of certain psalms in church; it is similar to when one makes one’s confession. Larger transgressions require more...stringent penances.’

  ‘Such as?’

  Elise shifted, she was staring at a leaf on the ground. ‘Embroidering the altar cloth. Lady Isobel mislikes that most particularly,’ she said quietly, not lifting her gaze from the leaf. ‘Though it’s not so bad at the Abbey.’

  The way Elise kept her gaze on the leaf...it was as though she found it hard to look at Lucien. Elise is shy, painfully shy.

  Rising, Lucien offered Isobel his hand. ‘Rest assured, the nuns will hear no mention of meat pies from me,’ he said. ‘In any case, the sin is surely mine. If they find out, you can say I bought them, and for courtesy’s sake you were forced to eat them.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord.’

  Lucien’s fingers closed warmly over hers. When he had kissed her at the inn, Isobel had been unprepared for it, but she had liked it. She liked the contact now. Lucien’s fingers were strong and capable, his nails were clean and cut straight across. There was nothing particularly remarkable about them, nothing to hint at how much she would enjoy their touch. He ran his thumb across her knuckles, and an echo of the shivery sensation she had felt in the inn feathered through her.

  ‘I shall return you to the Abbey,’ he said, tucking her arm into his and giving her one of his rare smiles. ‘I was coming to see you when I saw you heading for the tavern. I wanted you to know that chambers will shortly be available at Count Henry’s palace.’

  Isobel’s heart gave a nervous lurch. ‘When will they be ready?’

  ‘Tomorrow afternoon.’

  Heart thudding, Isobel looked into his blue eyes. So...it begins. From tomorrow, I will be entirely in your hands...

  Her blood thrummed in her veins—she felt excited, she felt afraid. A husband had so much power over a wife. Isobel had waited many years to come to this crossroad, and she had always imagined that her father and mother would be standing with her. With her mother’s death and her father’s illness, that was no longer possible.

  She knew remarkably little about Lucien the man. At times he seemed quite approachable—the kiss at the inn, the buying of the meat pies. At other times, he was stern and distant. She simply could not fathom him. The great tourney champion. He is an enigma.

  He had followed her to the inn and waited for her to engage the potboy in conversation before he had announced his presence. Why? It was as though he expected her to condemn herself
in his eyes; it was as though he was waiting for her to prove herself unworthy in some way.

  ‘I shall prepare to move to the palace tomorrow then.’

  His head dipped, and it struck her that he was watching for her reaction. ‘If that is convenient.’

  He expects me to be pleased. Thrusting her doubts behind her, Isobel put brightness into her voice. ‘Thank you, my lord, that will be...a relief.’

  * * *

  The Abbess was waiting at the convent gate.

  ‘There you are,’ she said, grasping Isobel by the wrist. Then she noticed Lucien, and released her as quickly as she had grasped her. ‘Count Lucien!’

  ‘Good day, Reverend Mother.’ Lucien interposed himself between Isobel and the Abbess. ‘Did my lady not inform you of our meeting to discuss our forthcoming marriage?’

  Abbess Ursula gripped the cross at her breast and looked coolly at them. ‘Lady Isobel said nothing of any meeting, my lord.’

  ‘My apologies, Reverend Mother, I am sure you will forgive her. We had much to decide upon.’ He looked down his nose at her. ‘And now we are come to inform you of our plans. Lady Isobel will be taking her leave of you tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Count Henry’s steward has found chambers for her in the palace, they will be ready tomorrow. I see no reason why she should not move in then.’

  The Abbess made a choking sound. ‘My lord, I am afraid that will not be possible, Lady Isobel’s maid has not recovered. I do not advise that an unmarried lady moves into the palace without her companion.’

  Isobel felt Lucien stiffen.

  ‘Reverend Mother,’ he spoke softly, but there was iron in his voice. ‘You are surely not suggesting that Lady Isobel will be at risk while she is under the protection of Count Henry?’

  ‘Lady Isobel will need a maid.’

  Isobel felt a tug on her skirt.

  ‘Please,’ Elise whispered, eyes fixed on Isobel. ‘Take me.’

  ‘I should like that,’ Isobel said, looking at Lucien.

  ‘Good idea,’ he said. ‘Elise shall accompany my lady to the palace.’

  Abbess Ursula sniffed. ‘My lord, I had hoped to have charge of Lady Isobel a while longer. There are certain...aspects of her character that require more...training. You are bound to have noticed them. I strongly recommend Lady Isobel remains at the Abbey until your wedding. That way we can improve her—’

  ‘Improve her, Reverend Mother?’ Lucien murmured, placing his hand on Isobel’s. His thumb moved back and forth over her skin, in that subtle caress that unsettled as much as it reassured. ‘What can you mean?’

  ‘Lady Isobel is rather...wayward, my lord.’ The Abbess paused. ‘And we don’t want history to repeat itself, do we?’

  * * *

  Lucien went still, but his mind raced. Abbess Ursula’s effrontery—on two counts—briefly robbed him of speech. Isobel was unquestionably wayward. The sight of his betrothed standing up to that redhead in the Black Boar would live long in his mind. He was startled to feel his mood lift as he remembered. It was true that Lucien had hoped that his second wife would be quietly, sweetly biddable. Isobel was neither quiet nor biddable, but he was sure, with the right training...

  ‘It is not for you to criticise my betrothed. Her time here is over.’ It came to him that convent training would never work on someone like Isobel. She was as unsuited to life in a nunnery as he would be. Perhaps her early arrival in Troyes had as much to do with Isobel as it did with her stepmother—she was desperate to escape the convent.

  As for Abbess Ursula’s reference to Morwenna—how dare she! Isobel was bound to find out about Morwenna at some point, but Lucien had no intention of that happening until after their wedding. After he had honoured his promise to his father. After we have had time to get to know one another.

  That last thought caught him unawares. Ruthlessly, he dismissed it. We shall marry, and Isobel will choose one of my castles to live in. And then, apart from the children she will bear me, life will go on very much as it did before.

  In the aftermath of the first attack on Morwenna, Lucien had been forced to tell Abbess Ursula that Morwenna was his wife. Only the Abbess and a handful of his knights knew of his first marriage. Lucien had revealed his secret to the Abbess purely for Morwenna’s sake. He had wanted to protect her, and he had known that the Abbess would be more inclined to squash rumours of witchcraft if she knew Morwenna was Lucien’s wife.

  Notwithstanding, Lucien had had many a sleepless night over the Abbess learning that he was married. If word had got out—the scandal would have rocked Christendom. A noble of Lucien’s status was expected to marry well. Morwenna was not noble. She had been a minstrel’s daughter and her illegitimate birth was against her. If Isobel’s father, Viscount Gautier, had found out about the marriage, he would have accused Lucien—quite rightly—of breaching the terms of his betrothal contract. Not only would Isobel be lost to Lucien, but with her would have gone any hope of him having a real marriage.

  I kept marriage to Morwenna quiet in the hope that Morwenna would become strong enough to survive an annulment.

  That day had never dawned. Morwenna’s mind had become increasingly clouded and he hadn’t had the heart to divorce her. He had lost himself in tourneying; flinging himself into the life of an itinerant knight; hoping against hope that one day Arthur would send a message informing him that Morwenna had recovered. The message had never come, and Lucien hadn’t been able to bring himself to seek an annulment from a woman who was unable to fend for herself.

  Several years had gone by with Lucien braced for the day when the Abbess would reveal his secret to the world. Rather to his surprise, that day had never dawned. The Abbess had kept her word; she had kept his shameful secret. As far as Lucien could tell, she had never breathed a word about his marriage.

  Until now...

  If Isobel learned about Morwenna too soon, her view of him would be coloured by that one terrible mistake from his past. A woman of her status would see his marriage to Morwenna as an insult. Isobel would have grounds to reject him, and the world would learn his shameful secret. His dishonour. And those years of striving to regain his honour on the tourney field would be as dust in the wind. It was too soon for Isobel to learn about Morwenna.

  ‘Lady Isobel is my responsibility now,’ he said, firmly. ‘And I thank you for your care of her.’

  Abbess Ursula inclined her head. ‘Very well, my lord. May I wish you both well in your marriage?’

  ‘Thank you, Reverend Mother.’

  When the Abbess had gone, Isobel touched Lucien’s arm. ‘My lord, what did Reverend Mother mean about history repeating itself?’

  His jaw tightened. ‘It’s not important. Forget it. You will soon be out of here.’

  ‘For that I am grateful.’

  Lucien lifted her hand from his arm and kissed her fingers. ‘I shall bring porters and an escort at noon tomorrow. Until then, I bid you farewell.’

  * * *

  Count Henry’s palace was but a short step away along the Rue Moyenne and across the bridge, so there would be no need for horses. As Lady Isobel of Turenne’s betrothed came to escort her and she bade farewell to the nuns, the last notes of the noon bell rang out from St Peter’s Cathedral.

  It had rained earlier, and the cobbles gleamed with wet. It was cold, goose-bumps ran down her neck. Winter was fast approaching, but nothing could depress her spirits. Pulling up her hood, Isobel walked out of the Abbey and placed her hand on Lucien’s arm.

  At last, she was to have a taste of what life as the Countess d’Aveyron might be like. There would be no more penitential sewing for her, no more hours on her knees poring over her psalter. The man at her side would shortly be her husband.

  Lucien’s arm was steady as he guided her towards the palace. Strong. It was hard to remember her status and walk sedately. I am free of convents for ever! Elise and I will have a set of chambers entirely to ourselves. There will be no more sharing a bed
chamber with other noblewomen; there will be no more jostling for the best place in bed.

  She kept her head high and tried not to look at Lucien. He was full of contradictions, and she had doubts about their future together, but she was eager for their marriage to take place.

  Lucien in the flesh was not quite as she had imagined him. During the time when she had been awaiting his summons, she had decided he must be cold-hearted. Remote. A lord who would brook being questioned by no one. There were times when that seemed to be true. Clearly, he set much store in obedience.

  He smiled but rarely. And yet—when he did smile, his whole face transformed. I do not know how it is, but his smile touches my soul. Isobel knew she could not set much store in a smile. Smiles came cheap. Usually. She did not believe that was true in Lucien’s case. His rare smiles were to be treasured. It was somewhat galling to learn that he could touch her with something as simple as a smile after abandoning her to the nuns for so long.

  And then there was his serious, distant look...if it were not for that, she might insist that he told her why he had taken so long to summon her. We shall have the rest of our lives together, I shall ask him later...

  Elise and Joris were talking behind them, something about the road being rutted by too many cartwheels. Isobel glanced back. Between them, they were ensuring the porters didn’t let Isobel’s travelling chests slide off the handcarts. Joris had Isobel’s jewel box tucked under his arm. The jewel box didn’t contain much—a string of pearls; a gold ring that had belonged to her grandmother; a few coins her father had given her for the journey.

  Lucien’s manner with Joris was invariably relaxed and easy. It was difficult to imagine him playing the tyrant with his men. He wouldn’t need to.

  Their procession passed a cloth merchant’s, people were staring.

  ‘That must be Isobel of Turenne,’ one woman muttered. ‘She and Lord d’Aveyron are to marry.’

  The woman’s companion—a pale girl of about thirteen—replied, ‘What about the woman he keeps at Ravenshold?’

  Isobel caught her toe in the hem of her gown. The woman he keeps at Ravenshold?