Carol Townend

by Lady Isobel's Champion

  She gave Isobel a refined smile. ‘I wish you well in your marriage, Countess Isobel.’

  ‘Thank you, my lady.’

  ‘We shall have singing shortly,’ the Countess told her. ‘I have engaged one of my troubadours to perform for you.’

  ‘That is most kind,’ Isobel said. Countess Marie was the daughter of King Louis of France and his first wife, Eleanor of Aquitaine. Clearly, she shared her interest in music with her mother.

  From the head of the table, Isobel looked out over candle after candle, over trencher after trencher, at what looked like half the nobility of Christendom. It was no surprise to see the aristocracy of Champagne sitting around the board, but lords and ladies from the Duchies of Aquitaine and Normandy were here too. Others had come from as far afield as Brittany. There were knights and lords from the Counties of Auvergne, Toulouse, Flanders...

  Flames leaped in the huge fireplace, bathing faces with flickering light. The air held the tang of wood-smoke and the smell of roasted meats. The noise—chattering, laughter—was deafening and, as the festivities progressed, the clamour increased. A couple of jugglers began to perform in the space at the side of the table, and soon brightly coloured balls were criss-crossing overhead.

  ‘They are too hasty, they will make a slip,’ Lucien observed. ‘I wouldn’t mind betting a ball lands in someone’s wine.’

  Isobel had never seen him so relaxed. The stern lines of his face had eased—he looked years younger. And impossibly handsome. When his blue eyes crinkled up in amusement, he was devastatingly attractive. She smiled experimentally at him and when he immediately smiled back, her stomach knotted with an emotion she was startled to recognise as yearning.

  ‘It seems very likely,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I shall wager against you.’

  After the quiet of a convent, her wedding feast was somewhat overwhelming. Lucien’s presence at her side was a blessing. Until she had seen him waiting for her in the cathedral porch, Isobel had not realised how much she wanted this marriage. The emotions that had run through her had been telling. Uppermost had been undisguised pleasure at seeing Lucien again. He had not changed his mind and found reason for further delay. Naturally, she had wondered about the course their lives together would take, and about how soon she might persuade him to rid himself of his mistress. And last, but by no means least, there had been that disturbing thrill that had shot through her as he had taken her hand and raised it to his lips.

  And here they were at their wedding feast. We are married. After all the waiting, Lucien and I are man and wife.

  Lucien’s friend, Sir Raoul de Courtney, waved for wine and servants rushed to serve him. The wine had been flowing for hours, the wine barrels in Count Henry’s cellars must be fathoms deep. Waiting women scurried this way and that with as much energy as they had done hours ago; wine slopped from great clay jugs as they tripped over dogs lying in the rushes.

  Count Henry was doing them much honour. The oval serving platters were so large it took two serving men to carry them. A boar’s head and several haunches of venison filled the hall with the mouth-watering scents of roasted meats. There were dishes of roast duck braised in wine, and stuffed goose. There were apple dumplings, and sweetmeats that had come from the east...

  ‘What are these?’ Isobel asked, helping herself to a dried fruit and nibbling it warily.

  ‘Those? They are dates,’ Lucien said. ‘Be careful, they have stones.’

  ‘I like them.’ Choosing another date, Isobel sighed, she was longing for a quiet moment to herself. This feast was too...too much.

  ‘Tired?’ Lucien’s hand covered hers. His eyes glittered and he lowered his voice. ‘We could retire.’

  Blushing, Isobel gestured hastily towards the fire. ‘I am fine, thank you, it is just that it is a little stuffy in here.’ She was not as anxious about her wedding night as she had been—Elise had taken her to the apothecary’s as she had promised. A small sack of herbs was hidden at the bottom of her jewel box. Isobel had begun taking them at once, and she prayed daily that they would be enough to prevent her getting with child. But recalling her friend Anna, she remained apprehensive. How much will it hurt? What if I am a disappointment to him? I must make no mention of mistresses. I must not anger him, not tonight.

  She leaned close and her shoulder touched his arm. ‘It is too soon to leave, my lord. Countess Marie mentioned a troubadour.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Lord save us, not Bernez?’

  ‘The Countess didn’t mention a name.’

  ‘I hope it’s not Bernez, the man drones on for hours.’

  Isobel sipped at the wine, and passed the goblet to him. Whatever happened in the bedchamber, she wouldn’t feel truly married until they were on Lucien’s land. She was the Comtesse d’Aveyron. ‘Will we be leaving for Ravenshold soon, my lord?’

  Lucien’s smile faded. ‘Count Henry has said the apartment here—’ he indicated the door leading to the spiral staircase ‘—is available for as long as we require it.’

  Heart sinking, Isobel kept her eyes on his face and waited, alert for his slightest change of expression. ‘We are to remain in Troyes? For how long?’

  Was this his tactful way of telling her that although they were married, he would continue to see his mistress? She forced herself to keep smiling. Her face felt stiff. I am not going to tolerate a mistress. However, she was determined not to argue with him tonight. Not when tomorrow morning she intended following him to the All Hallows Tourney...

  Down the board, a young knight was offering a sweetmeat to a blushing lady. The young man was quite the gallant; he was entirely focused on his lady. That knight would deny his lady nothing. She glanced surreptitiously at Lucien, and wondered if he would ever play the gallant for her.

  ‘We must live in Count Henry’s palace for a while, my lady,’ Lucien was saying. ‘I have neglected Ravenshold in past years.’

  Noticing that ‘we’, Isobel felt hope bloom anew. ‘In the past there have been too many tournaments, I suppose. Too many prizes to win.’

  Thinking about the prizes that Lucien had won reminded her why they had married. My value to Lucien lies in my dowry. It is a blessing that there is some liking between us, but I cannot allow the physical attraction that I feel for him to obscure the fact that for him my value lies in what I bring to him. The lands of Turenne. To Lucien, I am but another prize. Which reminds me...

  ‘My lord, about my dowry...’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘In his letter, did Father mention I was bringing a chest of silver with me?’

  ‘He said something of the sort.’ He looked thoughtfully at her. ‘I don’t recall it coming with us from the Abbey. Where is it?’

  ‘The Abbess took it into safekeeping. It is locked in the Abbey crypt.’

  ‘I am glad you mentioned it. Viscount Gautier won’t want your silver to stay in the clutches of the church. I’ll send for it first thing in the morning.’

  Isobel found herself smiling at Lucien’s careless irreverence. It was a smile that hid a painful burst of longing. I want Lucien to want me for myself, not because I bring him a chest of silver and, on my father’s death, the lands and revenues of Turenne.

  He took her hand, rubbing his thumb across her palm, making it tingle. ‘There is something I wish you to know.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I deeply regret that Viscount Gautier could not be here to witness our wedding, I know it must grieve you.’

  ‘It does, but I have grown used to the thought. When I left the south it was clear that Father was too ill to travel. My lord, my father and I are not close—I can count the hours we have spent together on the fingers of one hand.’

  ‘I am sure you exaggerate.’

  ‘Only a little.’ Isobel focused her gaze on a candle halfway down the board. ‘Father wanted a son—he would have preferred me to be a boy.’ The words had barely left her lips when she wished them unsaid. They were too revealing, too much pain lay behind the
m. On account of her sex, her father’s love had been withheld from her. She could feel Lucien’s gaze on her, and when she turned to him and saw understanding in his eyes, she felt as though the ground beneath her had shifted. For it was not pity she could see in those blue eyes, but sympathy—sympathy such as her father had never given her. Her chest ached.

  ‘You do him proud, Isobel,’ he murmured, giving her thigh a comforting squeeze. ‘I am sure Viscount Gautier appreciates you.’

  Lucien’s perceptiveness unnerved her. Blinking rapidly, she prayed he had not seen her momentary weakness. Despite everything, she would have liked her father to have witnessed her wedding, just as she would have liked her mother to witness it. There were times when she felt the need of an ally. It was not like her to mourn for what she could not have, but she would have liked a sister or brother to support her today. Her escort was billeted in the nearby garrison, and though Elise had been on hand to help her, she had not known Elise for long. Poor Girande, the maid who had been her companion for years, was still languishing in the Abbey infirmary...

  Lucien’s hand remained on her thigh, warm and firm. His touch gave her the illusion that she was no longer alone. She was a married woman.

  Ours is a political marriage. Lucien is marrying me for my dowry.

  Lucien stroked her thigh, turned to Sir Raoul, and embarked on a discussion about erosion in the ramparts at Ravenshold.

  Bless him. Her husband might not be the most gallant of men, but he had seen her distress and was giving her time to compose herself.

  After a few moments, he turned back to her. ‘Raoul can confirm that Ravenshold is in an appalling state. Raoul?’

  Sir Raoul grunted agreement. ‘Luc’s not lying, Countess.’

  ‘It is not fit for a lady, parts of it are practically in ruin,’ Lucien added. ‘I would prefer you to see it after I have put it to rights. That is why we will remain here at the palace.’

  ‘My lord, I do not care about the state of Ravenshold.’ Feeling more herself, Isobel touched his hand. ‘It is your home in Champagne and I would far rather be there than lodged as a guest in Count Henry’s palace.’

  ‘You would?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Lucien looked at the hand she had placed on his, his expression a mix of puzzlement and surprise. When he interlaced his fingers with hers, a frisson of sensation shot through her. ‘I shall think about it. My servants are in disarray thanks to an influx of knights who have arrived for the tournament tomorrow. Conditions there are very...spartan.’

  ‘My lord...Lucien, have you any idea what life is like in a convent?’

  A dark brow shot upwards. ‘My lady?’

  ‘Convents are spartan too, my lord. They are nothing like this palace. Some convents allocate cells to their guests—they are as stark as the nuns’ cells. Others put visitors in lodges. Either way, the accommodation is cold and cheerless. Particularly when the vow of silence is imposed at night.’

  ‘The sisters tried to make you keep the vow of silence?’ His lips twitched. ‘I can see that might tax you. Did they succeed?’

  She gave him a quelling look, which turned his smile into an outright grin. ‘Lucien, you have a wife now. It is my duty to share the burden at all your holdings, and that includes Ravenshold.’

  ‘You would help me set Ravenshold to rights?’

  ‘Yes.’ Intercepting the look of alarm he shot at Raoul, she added hastily, ‘Of course, I would not dream of interfering in military matters, but I am looking forward to taking charge of the household.’

  For a moment, Isobel could swear Lucien’s expression was one of pure bemusement. It was as though she had been speaking to him in a foreign tongue and he needed an interpreter.

  ‘You wish to set Ravenshold to rights?’

  ‘I am your wife, Lucien, your countess. I have been trained to manage your household, why is this so surprising?’

  ‘It is your duty.’ His voice was soft.

  ‘Lucien, it is more than that. I want to help.’

  There were undercurrents here that Isobel could not fathom. She lightened her tone. ‘There is not enough to occupy me at the palace. Countess Marie has a battalion of servants running to satisfy her every whim. I only get in the way. I need to be doing, and I would far rather be doing for you, my husband.’

  If Lucien had looked bemused a moment ago, he now looked definitely baffled. He exchanged glances with Sir Raoul.

  ‘Told you,’ Sir Raoul muttered, accompanying his words with the oddest of smiles.

  Isobel stiffened. ‘Sir Raoul told you what?’

  ‘He mentioned he met you in Conques last year.’ Lucien shrugged. ‘He warned me you were a mouthy wench.’

  Sir Raoul spluttered into laughter. ‘Luc, you devil...my lady, I swear I never said anything of the sort, I—’

  Lucien cut his friend short with a look as a cheer went up. Countess Marie’s troubadour was up in the gallery.

  Count Henry leaned forwards to claim Isobel’s attention. ‘Our trouvère will sing for you, Countess,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, I am honoured,’ Isobel murmured, politely lifting her eyes to the gallery.

  Lucien gave a smothered groan. ‘God save us, it is Bernez.’

  Beneath the tablecloth, strong fingers tightened on hers. He moved their joined hands up and down her thigh, in long, languorous strokes that were more sensual than comforting. As the troubadour loosed several chords on his lute, Isobel thought she caught the words ‘mouthy wench’ again. Then the entire hall, including her husband, fell silent.

  Chapter Eight

  Lucien studied Isobel’s profile as Bernez launched into song.

  She wants to help me. Lord. Morwenna had never made such a suggestion, not even in the early days when she had been worming her way into his heart. Morwenna had only shown interest in her brews and concoctions. Lucien had long thought his choice of Morwenna as his bride had been down to ill luck as much as ill judgement. Another possibility now occurred to him. Did Morwenna choose me because I was able to give her the space she needed in which to conduct her experiments?

  He glanced up at the minstrel’s gallery. Bernez had a clear, sweet voice. The man played like an angel, his voice flowed out over the hall like honey, but there was no ignoring the fact that this was entertainment for women. Lucien gritted his teeth and braced himself to endure what promised to be a long and impossibly idealistic love story between a married lady and one of her husband’s young knights.

  Courtly love—what nonsense it was. As if a healthy man would be content for long in a chaste relationship! Such stories were popular at the Champagne Court. And from the starry expression on his wife’s face, it was clear that Countess Marie was not the only one to adore them.

  Like her mother, Queen Eleanor, Countess Marie actively encouraged troubadours; her corridors and halls were full of them. Countess Marie’s ladies swooned over their stories, doubtless whiling away their time flirting with Count Henry’s household knights, just as the ladies did in the ballads. On the surface, the flirtations appeared harmless. But how many married ladies were using the pretence of a flirtation with a young and handsome knight to shield a real affair? Countess Marie was a rare jewel—she would never stoop so low.

  Would Isobel? Lucien wanted to trust her, he wanted children with her. And a man needed to know his children were...well, his. Today, the minstrel’s story was about unrequited love. As Lucien listened, it was a challenge to keep the sneer from his face. Can a man ever trust a woman?

  The old guilt filled him. Once Lucien had realised Morwenna’s true nature—volatile, uncertain, a flickering candle—he had ceased to bed her. For a while, he had been chaste, holding to the sacredness of marriage, even if that marriage had been based on trickery—on lies, and greed, and lord knew what else. After a couple of years, during which time he had lived like a monk, cynicism had set in.

  He had begun to take lovers. Not many. Lucien had enough self-awareness to accept that
for him the marriage bond should be sacred. But there had been lovers. One had been a married woman with the sense to be discreet. There had been one or two girls on the tourney circuit. He had taken pleasure, he had given pleasure.

  And every time, guilt had hung over him like a Doom.

  No more, he thought, stroking Isobel’s thigh, and edging closer so that he might breathe in her perfume. No more guilt.

  Isobel is my wife.

  His heart lifted. Lucien felt—he frowned—the feeling was unfamiliar and difficult to analyse. He felt carefree. Most unlike his usual self. He had not felt this way in years.

  Not everyone was paying Bernez the lute player quite as much attention as the Countess Marie. While Lucien had been lost in thought, muted conversation had sprung up about the board. Diners at the top end of the table were discussing the fate of the Queen of England.

  Relations between King and Queen had soured after Queen Eleanor had sided with her sons against her husband, going so far as to encourage her sons in revolt against their father. The Queen had been on her way to join her sons in Paris when she had vanished. No one knew her whereabouts, or even whether she was alive or dead. It was a subject that hung on many people’s lips.

  ‘Anyone had word on Queen Eleanor?’ a knight seated to the left of Raoul asked.

  Lucien frowned. The man was loud, and his question a trifle tactless given that their hostess, Countess Marie, was the Queen’s daughter. Countess Marie had not seen her mother for years, none the less...

  One of the squires leaned in. ‘I heard King Harry seized her.’

  A grizzled knight scowled. ‘Where’s your proof? King Harry is very tight-lipped.’

  ‘Do you blame him? It won’t advance his popularity in the Aquitaine if he admits to imprisoning his wife.’

  Raoul’s neighbour shrugged. ‘Aye, but it is their son Richard, who...’