‘Blessed Mary, what is this place?’ There was a table opposite the door and in the centre stood a stoppered glass jar of some rarity. Isobel’s attention was caught, not by the jar, but by the contents. ‘Is that a dead—?’ She broke off abruptly.
Elise stood as though turned to stone in the middle of the chamber, hand over her mouth. The colour had leached from her face. Never had Isobel see anyone look more horrified. It was not hard to see why. Aside from the glass jar with its gruesome contents, there was a dead bird on the table, and any number of tiny bones. A scattering of shrivelled leaves had gone blue with dust. There were bunches of withered plants, dried roots...
Isobel drew Elise’s hand away from her mouth. ‘You need not stay,’ she said softly. ‘If you prefer, you can wait for me in the bailey.’
Elise’s eyes were glassy with tears. ‘It looks like a witch’s lair.’
‘I don’t think there’s anything here that can hurt you, Elise.’
‘Is there not?’ Elise asked, in a high, tight voice.
‘It does look rather...unpleasant,’ Isobel said, soothingly. ‘Although I am sure there will be a perfectly innocent explanation. No witch has been here. Perhaps Solène uses this chamber to dry her herbs, perhaps—’
‘This was not Solène’s chamber.’
Isobel blinked, Elise sounded so definite. ‘How can you know?’
Shaking her head, eyes brimming with tears, Elise backed out of the chamber. ‘I...I am sorry, my lady. I cannot stay.’
Isobel nodded and Elise fled. Turning back to the trestle, Isobel looked blindly at the grisly display and gritted her teeth. Determination pinned her in place when, in truth, it would have been easier to go after Elise; she did seem upset. I have to find out what this chamber was used for and, more importantly, who has been using it. Lucien’s mistress? Solène? There would be time to reassure Elise later. When Isobel heard what she had been waiting for—the bang of the door at the base of the tower—she lifted her head.
The room was lit by a lancet on the south wall, and the light was much dimmed by a curtain of cobwebs. Isobel wiped the embrasure clear of the worst of the cobwebs and dust, and brushed off her hands.
The window was unglazed. Outside, the wind was rushing past the tower, a waterfall of cold poured in on her. There was no fireplace. Come midwinter everything would freeze solid. Ignoring the chill, Isobel looked out of the window.
Sir Gawain had lied about the view. From the top of the east tower, one could see everything. Down there was the bailey and the stables. Down there was the gatehouse and curtain wall, and beyond that the fields and vineyards. The forest was a charcoal smudge, darkening the horizon. Rooks dotted the sky. Isobel could see the stone cross mounted on the roof of the village church. Riders were approaching—a knight and his squire. The knight’s destrier was black and a blue shield was strapped on his left. He had looped his helmet over the pommel of his saddle.
Lucien! She had not expected him back from Troyes so soon. Wanting to observe him without being seen herself, she kept very still. From her high vantage point, his features were indistinguishable—he was simply a dark-haired knight riding through the arch with his squire at his side. Isobel could hear the faint clop of hoofs and a guard greeting his returning lord.
Lucien was trotting into the bailey when a woman called out. ‘Count Lucien! My lord!’
Isobel watched him twist in the saddle to look back. She couldn’t breathe. She caught a hint of movement outside her line of sight beyond the gatehouse—something moss green in colour and...
The woman spoke again. Her words were snatched by the wind. Isobel pinned her gaze on Lucien. Earlier, a woman in a moss-green cloak had been speaking to the sentries. Had she been waiting for Lucien? Her heart sank. Was this his mistress?
Dismounting, Lucien strode back to the gatehouse, leaving Joris to lead Demon into the stable. By craning her neck and pressing her cheek against the cold stone embrasure, Isobel kept her husband in sight. He stood under the arch next to a guard, taller than he by a head. There was a tantalising flash of green, and an exchange of words that Isobel had no chance of hearing. Lucien made a dismissive gesture, and turned on his heel.
Isobel released her breath. What was that about?
She watched as Sir Gawain appeared in the bailey, and Lucien altered course to meet him. Her pulse jumped. More words were exchanged and they too were whipped away, but Isobel did not need to hear them to know what Sir Gawain had said.
He had told Lucien that his lady had gone into the east tower. When Sir Gawain pointed up, she ducked out of sight. When she next looked, the bailey was empty save for a flurry of leaves skittering across the stones by the water troughs. Her nails dug into her palms. Her investigation of this chamber was going to have to wait, for if she was not mistaken, her husband was about to join her.
A couple of heartbeats later, quick footsteps mounted the stairs a few turns below.
* * *
Ignoring the chainmail weighing him down, Lucien forged up the spiralling stairs. He was hoping against hope that Gawain was mistaken. Gawain had to be mistaken. He did not want to find Isobel in Morwenna’s room because it was too soon to confess past sins, far too soon. Lucien wanted his new wife’s regard, but he did not flatter himself that she loved him. The bond between us is, as yet, ephemeral. Yes, we are married, but she is not ready to hear about Morwenna.
That morning, Lucien had instructed Gawain to keep Isobel away from Morwenna’s workroom. Lulled by the carnal attraction between them, he had thought that Isobel would heed Gawain’s advice. More fool he. Isobel only did as she was told when it suited her; she was a wilful woman. One reason he had changed his mind about bringing her to Ravenshold was because she had flouted his authority over the All Hallows Tourney. He had thought he could keep an eye on her at Ravenshold. He had thought...
He pounded up another twist of stairs, and cursed himself for being a sentimental fool. He should not have given her the run of Ravenshold until Morwenna’s workroom had been cleared. He would be the first to admit he was no expert on women, but he was clear on one point. Isobel did not yet fully trust him, she did not love him. And he wanted her love. Lucien might struggle to understand what love was, but he wanted his new wife to love him. He wanted it more than he had wanted the champion’s prize at the last tourney, which was passing strange, since he was not certain that he himself was capable of love.
Morwenna had made certain of that. Never again would he look at a woman and know that she was the sum of his desires. Never again would he...
Hell, what did it matter? In the deepest recesses of his soul, despite the wailings of the troubadours, Lucien had long suspected that love did not exist. He could not think why he should crave Isobel’s love. Love was likely a delusion brought on by an excess of desire. Of lust. Love was longing for the unattainable. There was little to be gained by him desiring Isobel’s.
Far better to win her affection. That was the real prize. If he had Isobel’s affection, he would have the upper hand. He would have control. That was what counted with women, they needed to know who had the upper hand. If Isobel felt affection for him, she would be more likely to give him children. Children with green eyes and...
Chest heaving, Lucien reached the top. Isobel was standing in front of Morwenna’s workbench. The way she was looking at him sent icy sweat trickling down his neck.
‘Is that your mistress?’
‘What?’ Lucien’s mind was still populated with green-eyed children, and her question threw him. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘The woman by the gatehouse, is she your belle amie?’
‘Isobel, how many times must I tell you? I have no belle amie.’
‘You, my lord, are a liar.’ Isobel spread her arms to encompass the chamber. ‘Whose workroom is this? Why was Sir Gawain so keen to prevent me coming in here?’ A slim finger poked disdainfully at an empty eggshell. ‘To whom do these squalid objects belong?’
The time for prevarication was over. Lucien looked her straight in the eye. ‘I asked Gawain to steer you clear of here because I didn’t think you were ready for the truth.’
‘The truth? What truth?’
With a sigh, Lucien picked a purple bead out of the mess on the table and stared sadly at it. It was glass, one side of it was chipped. He remembered Morwenna’s excitement when she had found it. Her eyes had taken fire as she had told him that it was ancient, a relic of the era when Troyes had been occupied by the Romans. ‘I hoped to have more time with you, Isobel, before I explained.’
‘Where is the woman to whom these things belong? Have you sent her away?’
Taking her arm, Lucien took her to the window. ‘See the church?’
She sent him a puzzled look. ‘I can see the cross on the church roof.’
Lucien took a huge breath before he spoke again. ‘She lies in the graveyard.’
‘I...I don’t understand.’
‘The woman who used to work in here is dead. This was my wife Morwenna’s chamber. She lies in the churchyard yonder.’
Isobel went white. The rooks cawed outside. ‘You were married before? To a woman called Morwenna?’
‘Yes.’
She groped for a stool and sank down. Swallowed. ‘So there never was a mistress.’
‘No.’
‘Just a wife. A wife.’
‘Isobel—’
‘When...when did she die, this Morwenna?’
Holding her gaze, Lucien put his hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off.
‘When?’
‘At summer’s end.’
‘This summer just past?’
‘Yes.’
‘That would be about the time my mother died,’ she said softly.
She was staring at the wall, her face a mask. Again, he reached for her shoulder, again she shook him off. ‘Isobel?’
‘I am your second wife.’
He nodded; anxiety sat chill in his guts. It is too soon. She is not ready to hear this. Briefly, he debated with himself whether there was anything to be gained by fending off further questions. No. She has been deceived for too long. It was a pity she had stumbled across this chamber so soon after her arrival, but since she had, he would confess all.
‘When did you marry her?’
He pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Iso—’
She jumped to her feet, hands clenched at her sides. ‘When?’
‘I was fifteen.’
Her mouth fell open. Jerking her gaze away, she glowered at the cluttered table. ‘My lord, you were fifteen at our betrothal ceremony.’
He reached for her chin and waited for those green eyes to meet his. ‘My first marriage was a mistake, Isobel. A youthful folly. I hoped...I thought to get an annulment.’
‘Did your father know?’
Lucien took her hand and led her firmly away from the table. ‘I told him, yes. He disapproved most heartily and pushed for an annulment. At first, I did not agree.’ She opened her mouth, but he pressed on. ‘Hear me out, Isobel, I am tired of living this lie. When I married Morwenna, I fancied myself in love with her. She was a few years older than me—and very beautiful. I should not have married her, I know. I went against my father’s wishes to do so.’ He shrugged. ‘What can I say? I was young and Morwenna was an enchantress.’
‘You fell in love.’
‘I thought I fell in love. In truth, I was in love with a pretty shell. I didn’t know her. It didn’t take long to discover what a schemer she was. Morwenna married me for the lands that I would inherit on my father’s death.’
Isobel made an impatient sound. ‘In itself that is no sin. You are the Comte d’Aveyron, I was to marry you for the same reason. Just as you have married me for Turenne. Our marriage is dynastic.’
Lucien looked down at the hand he had enfolded in his. It was so small. He squeezed it and whilst she did not return the gesture, he took it as a good sign that she had not wrenched it away from him. ‘You don’t understand. Before our wedding, Morwenna told me she loved me. When she told me she was pregnant, I believed her. I married her because she said she was carrying my child.’
Green eyes looked steadily into his. ‘And she wasn’t?’
He grimaced, shaking his head. ‘She thought to force my hand. Though if the truth be known, I was so bedazzled, I would have married her anyway.’
‘Fifteen.’ Her voice was strangled. ‘And you allowed our betrothal to take place.’
‘For that I can only say I am deeply sorry.’
‘Why? Why betroth yourself to me when you were already married?’
Lucien shoved his hand through his hair. ‘That was my father’s doing. He almost had an apoplexy when he heard how I had been trapped into marriage. Negotiations for my betrothal to you were well in hand, and Father decided I could be extricated from my marriage to Morwenna without anyone knowing about it.’ Lucien gave a bitter laugh. ‘He thought it would be simple.’
‘Your father was pressing for an annulment at the time of our betrothal?’
Lucien nodded. ‘Most vigorously. He insisted our betrothal went ahead—he was confident it would take but a couple of months to be granted an annulment. By the time you and I were betrothed, I was desperate for him to be right. The scales had fallen from my eyes and I saw Morwenna clearly. In marrying her, I had made a grievous error of judgement.’ Gently, he touched her cheek. ‘I wanted nothing more than to end the marriage, but as the years went by, I realised an annulment was not going to be possible.’
‘Where was honour in this?’ she asked, voice sharp. ‘Honour should have dictated you confessed about your marriage. Honour would insist that you waited before becoming betrothed to me.’
‘I won’t deny it, you are in the right. My only defence—and it is no excuse—is that Father convinced me an annulment could be swiftly achieved. He was loath to risk the alliance between d’Aveyron and Turenne.’
Isobel was listening, but Lucien sensed that she was poised for flight and might bolt at any moment. He tightened his hold and watched as she glanced down at their joined hands. Her mouth was set in a bitter line. It was not the mouth of the woman he had been wooing over the last few days; it was the mouth of a slighted woman, a woman who might never forgive him.
‘Release me, my lord.’
Lucien’s breath caught. For a sickening moment, he thought she was saying she wanted their marriage annulled.
She moved her hand. ‘Count Lucien, I can no longer feel my fingers.’
Count Lucien. His hand fell away from hers.
‘Thank you. My lord, I accept you were young when we were betrothed. We both were. Child that I was, I believed you to be the soul of honour. And now I find...’ She broke off, shaking her head. ‘My lord, the deception you practised upon me is so far from honourable as to be unspeakable. You say you did not know Morwenna when you married her. I say I did not know you when we were betrothed. I am no wiser today. What sort of a man are you? An honourable knight?’ Her eyes held nothing but scorn. ‘A champion who is the pattern of chivalry?’
‘Isobel, I deeply regret—’
‘When were you going to tell me? Were you ever going to tell me?’
‘I was waiting for the right moment. I hoped to earn your regard first. I feared that if you learned too soon into our marriage, you would hate me.’
‘My lord, the right moment to tell me was nine years ago.’
‘Forgive me.’
‘I am not sure that I can.’ Her voice was calm. Distant. She went to the door, her movements as unhurried and cool as her voice. Lucien would have felt better if she railed and shouted at him; this sangfroid seemed unnatural. Ominous.
‘Isobel, wait, there is more. I would have you know it all before I am condemned.’
She paused on the threshold. Her chest heaved. ‘I don’t want to hear it, I can’t.’ She gave him a brief curtsy. ‘Doubtless, I shall see you at the evening meal. Until then, my lord, I should be gratef
ul if you would grant me space to breathe.’
* * *
Lucien’s deception had cut Isobel to the quick, she had run to the bedchamber in the west tower before remembering that her husband would be well within his rights to follow her.
Elise was sitting disconsolately on the bed—her eyelids were swollen and her eyes red. She leaped to her feet and hastily smoothed the blankets. ‘My lady, I must apologise. I should not have rushed off like that, it is just...’ With a sniff, Elise rubbed her nose with the back of her hand.
Elise looked so woebegone that Isobel gave her a quick hug. ‘What was it about the workroom in the east tower that so upset you? I grant you, it’s not particularly pleasant, but there is nothing there that can harm you.’ She couldn’t bring herself to tell Elise that the workroom had been used by Lucien’s first wife; she had some pride.
His first wife. Lord, what a revelation! At least Lucien had had the grace to look ashamed when he had told her.
Elise gulped. ‘It...I...’
‘You need not fear. The person who used that chamber is no longer at Ravenshold.’
‘I knew that as soon as I saw it,’ came the surprising reply. ‘I am sorry to make such a fuss—I don’t know what came over me.’
‘I knew that as soon as I saw it.’ What does that mean? Thoughtfully, Isobel studied her. When they had gone up on the battlements, Elise had warned her to take care. What else had she said? Something about Lucien...
‘Elise, I can see you know more than you have told me. What did you mean when you told me that my lord was not what he seemed?’
Did Elise know that Lucien had been married before? If so, how? The secret of his first marriage had apparently been better guarded than silver in the King’s treasury...though given how long Morwenna had lived at Ravenshold, a number of people must have known about it. Who were they? Sir Gawain had tried to prevent her from climbing to the top of the east tower, so he must know. Did Sir Raoul know? How many others?
‘The women in Troyes spoke of a mistress,’ Isobel murmured, thinking aloud. ‘They knew he kept someone here, only they did not realise it was his—’ She broke off, Elise’s eyes were particularly sharp. Watchful. Isobel needed to think before she aired the matter of her husband’s first marriage with a young woman she had met only a few days ago. ‘Elise, I need time for reflection.’
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