Carol Townend

by Lady Isobel's Champion

  In a trice, her sense of optimism was gone, snuffed out like a candle. Lucien has a woman. A woman he keeps at Ravenshold. It would explain so much.

  He glanced at her, doubtless wondering why she had all but tripped over her gown. A dark eyebrow lifted.

  She risked a question. ‘Did you hear those women, my lord?’

  ‘What women?’

  Heart in her mouth, Isobel shook her head and walked on. As they turned into the main street, leaving the Abbey behind, Count Henry’s palace came into view.

  Careful. This might not be the best moment to question Lucien about a lady-love. He could yet reject me. Isobel sighed, her years of waiting had scarred her, it seemed. Scared her. I won’t be bundled back to the Abbey...I won’t.

  Isobel’s time in the convent had not blinded her to men’s baser natures. It was common knowledge that great lords often kept mistresses as well as wives. King Henry of England was notorious—despite his Queen, Eleanor of Aquitaine, being one of the most beautiful women in the world, King Henry had his Rosamund. And, if rumour could be relied upon, King Henry had countless other mistresses as well. Why should Lucien be any different?

  If Isobel hadn’t been so focused on escaping the convent, this would—should—have occurred to her. Does Lucien have a mistress? It was a question that tied her stomach in knots, a question she could not ask him, not today. If Lucien had a mistress—and surely a handsome lord like Lucien might have any woman he crooked a finger at?—he might have grown fond of her.

  The knots in her stomach tightened. She had been naïve. The girl’s voice echoed in her head. ‘What about the woman he keeps at Ravenshold?’

  Lucien had a mistress. That would explain his tardiness in marrying her, he had a belle amie. The questions kept on coming. If Lucien keeps his lady-love at Ravenshold, surely he will settle her elsewhere when we marry?

  Does he love her? Does he?

  * * *

  By the time they walked under the archway into the palace courtyard, Isobel’s mind was in such a ferment that she barely noticed her surroundings.

  Vaguely, she saw there was space. Stables lay on one hand; horses were visible through an open doorway. A groom was sweeping up some rain-sodden hanks of straw. Several men-at-arms were on duty by the gatehouse, and across the yard smoke was winding through the roof of a bakery.

  Count Henry’s steward had told Lucien that the palace was full, but after the chatter and shove of the streets the courtyard seemed as quiet as the convent. High walls shut out the townsfolk; they shut out the noise and rush.

  ‘This way, my lady.’ Lucien indicated a door at the side of the main building.

  My lady. Lucien’s polite formality was beginning to trouble her. Was he using it to keep her at arm’s length? Isobel racked her brains to try to remember whether he had called her ‘Isobel’ after finding her in the Black Boar. She thought that he had, but she could not quite recall...

  A stairway curled upwards. Lit by unglazed arrow-loops, it was dark and draughty. They rounded one turn and another, coming to a halt by a studded oak door.

  Lucien waved her in. ‘This will be your solar, until I take you to Ravenshold.’

  The solar was long and narrow. Tapestries covered every inch of the walls—making it look as though they were standing in a mythical forest. Rabbits frolicked in grassy clearings; maidens garlanded unicorns with flowers; ladies danced in and out of the trees. Two arched windows sat on either side of a stone fireplace, and—what extravagance!—they were glazed. The window seats overflowed with tasselled silk cushions. A fire blazed in the hearth.

  ‘Goodness,’ Isobel said, forcing pleasure into her voice. There was a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach. ‘This is very grand, my lord.’

  The windows overlooked the canal. Barges were gliding past below, filled to sinking point with packing crates and barrels. On the other side of the canal, Abbey Church towered over the roofs and streets of Troyes.

  Elise and Joris entered, followed by the porters. Elise dropped her bundle and disappeared through a curtained doorway in the panelling at the far end of the solar.

  ‘Your jewels, my lady,’ Joris said, handing Isobel her jewel box with great ceremony. Clearly he thought it contained a fortune. If only he knew.

  ‘Thank you, Joris.’

  ‘The bedchamber is at the far end, I believe,’ Lucien said, blue eyes flickering briefly towards the curtained doorway where Elise had gone. ‘I shall leave you to get settled.’

  ‘Thank you for securing these chambers, my lord.’

  Isobel was finally free of the convent. But—she studied Lucien’s dark, scarred features—was she exchanging one form of imprisonment for another? ‘My lord, will you be staying in the palace?’

  The dark head shook. He was wearing his distant look. ‘I have business at Ravenshold. When in town, I have quarters at the castle barracks.’

  Isobel dug her fingers into her palms. It was hard—no, it was impossible to forget the woman he kept in his castle. ‘My lord, I would like to see Ravenshold.’

  ‘Later. It is not fit to be seen at present. Work is in hand to bring it to rights. When that is done, be assured I shall show it to you.’

  Isobel’s heart twisted. What he was saying was that his belle amie, whoever she was, was still in residence. He was not ready to be rid of her! Isobel looked into his eyes and gritted her teeth. I will make you forget your mistress. Somehow she hung on to her smile. ‘I look forward to seeing you when your business permits, my lord.’

  He was halfway to the door when he turned and retraced his steps. Giving her a lopsided smile, he bent to whisper in her ear. ‘My lady, a small reminder...’

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘There are to be no more enquiries about the Field of the Birds. Since you will not be attending the All Hallows Tourney, there is no point. Is that clear?’

  Chapter Seven

  Unable to give him the promise he wanted, Isobel fiddled with the clasp on her jewel box. Was Lucien always so intransigent? Was it a foretaste of what marriage was going to be like—with her asking permission every time she wanted to do something, and with him denying her? Did he enjoy wielding power over her in this way? ‘Perfectly clear, my lord.’

  Lucien and Joris bowed and went out. When the crackling from the fire was louder than the footsteps going down the spiral stairway, Isobel went into the bedchamber. It was smaller than the solar, and dominated by a roomy bed with an oak headboard and carved bedposts. Pillows were creamy white; fluffy blankets were folded at the foot. A pair of coffers had been polished to a soft shine, and a row of wooden pegs ran along one wall. Elise was busily shaking out their cloaks and hanging them up.

  Isobel set her jewel box on a shelf next to a candlestick and sat on the bed. From the way she sank into it, the mattress was filled with swansdown. ‘Elise, do try this out. The convent pallets are beds of nails in comparison.’

  Elise sat cautiously beside her, and prodded the mattress. ‘What joy,’ she murmured with a small smile. ‘Not a straw in sight.’

  ‘How many penances do you imagine the sisters would impose for sleeping on this?’

  ‘An eternity of them?’ Elise rolled her eyes. ‘Doubtless they’d burn the bed, to avoid temptation.’

  With a smile, Isobel took Elise’s hand. ‘We’re going to like it here.’ And if Lucien did not have a mistress, I might like it even more...

  ‘Yes, my lady.’ Elise rose. ‘If you will excuse me, I shall unpack your belongings.’

  ‘Not yet awhile, we have the rest of the afternoon. I need your counsel.’

  ‘My lady?’

  Their wedding was days away and Lucien had made no mention of whether he would see her before then. If the women she had heard in the street were in the right, he was keeping a mistress at Ravenshold. Isobel jumped to her feet, and began to pace. She walked to the window, and ran her hands over thickly-embroidered curtains which fell from ceiling to floor. Every stitch spoke of opulence, of
immeasurable wealth. They were looped back with silver braiding.

  Lucien leaves me in his friend’s palace and goes back to his mistress at Ravenshold. How often does he share his bed with her? Will he do so tonight? Her nails were digging into her palms. Slowly, she uncurled her fingers. She should not care. She did not care. Our marriage was never a love match. It is a matter of politics.

  ‘My lady, are you all right?’

  ‘I am quite well, thank you, Elise.’ Apart from having doubts about my betrothed.

  Will he get rid of his mistress after our wedding, or will I have to endure the embarrassment of knowing that he has a rival hidden away at Ravenshold?

  If only she had had leisure to study Lucien’s nature. If they had met at regular intervals during the years of their betrothal, she would know if he was a man who would think nothing of humiliating his wife.

  She straightened her back. She must count her blessings, matters could be very much worse. At least she was not in love with him. If she were, she would be heartbroken. She was not heartbroken. And Lucien was not all tyrant. Yesterday he had taken her part when the Abbess would have chastised her for leaving the Abbey without permission. He had realised she was uncomfortable at the Abbey and had gone to the trouble of securing this apartment for her in Count Henry’s palace. He had taken them to the pie stand when she had expressed a desire to eat meat on a Friday.

  If only he had not forbidden her to go to the Field of the Birds.

  ‘Elise, I’m going to that tournament.’

  ‘The one after your wedding?’

  Isobel nodded.

  ‘My lady, is that wise? Count Lucien forbad it.’ Elise’s gaze was keen. ‘Are you going out of spite?’

  Something in Elise’s tone caught Isobel’s attention. ‘Spite? Where did you get that idea?’

  ‘The gossips in the Rue Moyenne.’

  ‘You heard about his belle amie.’ Isobel closed her eyes and wished the floor would open up and swallow her.

  ‘My lady, I am sorry. I can see it must be upsetting.’

  The words were sympathetic, and Elise reached out to touch her arm. Which made it all the more odd when it dawned on Isobel that Elise could be motivated by curiosity as much as sympathy. Of course, she had only known Elise for a couple of days. Now she thought about it, Elise was just as much a stranger to her as Lucien was. It was hard to read a person when one did not know them.

  Striding to the window, Isobel pressed her nose to the glass. Across the canal, the roofs of Troyes crowded up against each other, a jaggedy patchwork of shapes and sizes. ‘Elise, the man who stole the reliquary is going to that tournament, I refuse to miss it. It might be my only chance of finding the relic.’ She had no wish to disobey Lucien so soon after their wedding, but that couldn’t be helped.

  ‘My lady, given Count Lucien’s objections, I don’t advise—’

  Isobel made a chopping gesture and turned. ‘Elise, my mind is made up, I am going. And I should be pleased if you would come with me.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘If you don’t care to come, I shan’t hold it against you. I don’t know how much you know about tournaments—I have never been to one myself—but they apparently begin with the newest knights testing each other’s mettle. The early part of a tournament is known as—’

  ‘The vespers.’

  ‘You’ve been to one?’

  ‘It was some time ago, my lady. I recall it beginning with the young knights warming up.’ Elise came to the window, eyes anxious. ‘I have heard that in recent years tournaments at the Field of the Birds have been...unruly. After Count Lucien resigned as patron, any semblance of order was gone. Tourneys at the Field of the Birds have become notorious. When the mêlée starts, the onlookers are one step away from becoming a mob.’

  Isobel took this in with some surprise, she had no idea Elise knew so much about the Field of the Birds. ‘Why didn’t you mention this earlier?’

  ‘I thought you would change your mind about wanting to go.’ Elise stared at the bed, her expression unreadable. ‘My lady, if you go without his blessing, I suspect it will be a struggle to find a good vantage point, let alone see that thief. And if you do see him, what shall you do?’

  ‘I shall think of something.’

  Elise shook her head. ‘If the man realises you are watching him...my lady, you must take care. Can you be sure he will stop at thievery? He may be violent. And there’s more to consider...’

  Bemused at the flow of words from her hitherto quiet maid, Isobel waited.

  ‘Even the best-regulated tournaments are dangerous. King Louis loathes them. Men get killed. The coming tournament will be fiercer than most. You may regret going.’

  ‘Elise, I won’t faint at the first sight of blood, if that is what concerns you.’

  ‘I am sure you will not. But, my lady, knights are likely to be injured, Count Luc—’

  ‘Count Lucien is hardly a novice.’

  ‘No one is invincible, my lady. The Count’s scar is testimony to that.’

  ‘None the less, I am going.’

  Elise scowled at a plaited rush mat by the side of the bed, muttering darkly about ladies with an unholy relish of blood sports.

  ‘Elise!’

  Elise bit her lip. ‘My apologies, my lady, that was uncalled for, but I stand by what I have said. Tournaments can be brutal and bloody. I don’t think you should go.’

  ‘I have to, I owe a debt to the nuns at Conques,’ Isobel said quietly. Given how helpful Elise had been in the convent, and how keen she had been to accompany Isobel to the palace, her present intransigence was odd to say the least. She had mentioned men dying, perhaps she was squeamish. ‘Elise, you have made your objections plain. I will not chastise you if you do not come with me. But I most definitely need your help with finding that apothecary. I shall be needing those herbs. I take it you will not refuse me on that. Tell me, are there other ways to prevent conception?’

  ‘The nuns kept you ignorant, didn’t they, my lady?’

  Isobel felt a flare of anger. What was the matter with Elise? Her tone couldn’t be described as nasty, but nor was it pleasant. It was almost as though Elise knew Isobel was uncomfortable discussing this and was relishing her embarrassment. Her discomfiture. I must be imagining it, why should Elise relish my discomfiture? It made no sense, yet...

  With a glance at the doorway—anyone might be in the solar beyond—Isobel lowered her voice. ‘Are there other ways to avoid conception?’

  ‘Yes, my lady, there are.’

  ‘What are they?’

  It was Elise’s turn to glance at the doorway. ‘There are a number of ways, my lady. None are infallible, but I believe the herbs work best.’

  ‘Very well, you shall explain the other methods to me; I should like to know them. After that we shall visit the apothecary.’

  ‘As you wish, my lady.’

  ‘Today.’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’ Elise hesitated, chewing her lip. ‘My lady, about the All Hallows tournament...if you are set on going, I will come with you. You can’t go alone.’

  ‘I could take my father’s men as escort. Or...’ Isobel tipped her head to one side ‘...I could follow the example of the Duchess of Aquitaine when she wished to escape notice.’

  ‘My lady?’

  ‘I could dress as a man.’

  Elise’s eyes went round with shock. ‘No! Oh, my lady, Count Lucien would take that very ill, you cannot go abroad dressed as a man. If you must go, I shall be pleased to accompany you. I hope you understand that I would have felt I was failing in my duties, if I had not made my objections known.’

  ‘I understand,’ Isobel spoke soothingly. ‘Likely I would say the same in your shoes. You have to protect yourself.’ If Elise had a humble background, it made sense for her to speak out in this way. She had no noble family to stand by her, and if she angered Count Lucien, she would need support. ‘If anyone discovers we went to the Field of the Birds, I shall make it plain
that I insisted that you came with me.’

  ‘Thank you, my lady.’ Elise gave her a soft smile, but her eyes remained troubled.

  * * *

  On the afternoon of Winter’s Eve, the Bishop of Troyes officiated at the marriage of Lucien Vernon, Comte d’Aveyron, and Lady Isobel of Turenne. Isobel had not seen Lucien since the day he had brought her to the palace. A week had passed since then.

  Their wedding took place in the porch of St Peter’s Cathedral in the old town. As was the custom, the ceremony was simple and brief—a few words before witnesses, an exchange of vows, and a blessing.

  The Count of Aveyron and his bride had been given use of the Great Hall in Count Henry’s palace for their wedding feast. Thus, soon after their marriage had been blessed, Isobel found herself processing on Lucien’s arm to her seat at the high table on the dais. To honour their alliance, Isobel was wearing a blue gown that matched Lucien’s colours. Her veil was white silk, her circlet silver.

  The Great Hall shimmered with light. Candles clustered on trestles and wall sconces. More light radiated out from the fire and from hanging lamps. The banners of the lords of Champagne swayed up in the rafters, metallic threads twinkling like stars.

  At the far end, Isobel missed a step. A board bearing the familiar gold and red of the Viscounts of Turenne was nailed to the end wall as a backdrop. Her father’s colours were framed by blue banners, emblazoned with Lucien’s great black raven.

  Her eyes misted. She shouldn’t be startled to see her father’s colours displayed so prominently; her marriage was political. She could never forget the contract had been forged between Lucien’s father and hers. None the less, it warmed her to see the colours of Turenne linked so closely with the colours of Aveyron. She glanced shyly at her new husband, found observant blue eyes looking down at her, and smiled through the mist. Lucien produced one of his rare smiles and her heart swelled. Finally, the day she had waited for had arrived—they were married! She was determined not to dwell on her problems, not today.

  At the table, Isobel shared a trencher with her husband. Their host, Count Henry, sat on her other side. The Count of Champagne was middle-aged and portly, and he sat like a king at his board. His wife, Countess Marie, was some years younger. A slight thickening about her waist suggested that she was with child.