‘Of course. Where’s Girande?’
‘She’s feeling queasy again, my lady.’
‘I am sorry to hear it.’ Isobel padded across to the ewer, while Elise straightened the bed.
‘My lady, I was sorry to hear of your father’s death. Please accept my sympathies.’
Isobel’s eyes prickled. ‘Thank you, Elise.’ She reached for a washcloth.
‘Which gown will you wear today?’
‘The grey with the gold-and-red edging,’ Isobel said quietly. Gold and red were her father’s colours. And Lucien’s too, if Angelina was carrying a daughter. But if Angelina was carrying a son...
Saints preserve me, I shall not lose him.
‘My lady?’
Isobel started. Elise had been speaking and she had not noticed. ‘My apologies, Elise, I missed what you said.’
‘You know, don’t you?’ Elise said, holding out a drying cloth.
‘Know what?’
‘About Morwenna, Count Lucien’s first wife.’
Every muscle in Isobel’s body went taut as a bowstring. ‘You know about Morwenna?’ Surely the marriage was kept secret?
Chewing her lip, Elise took the drying cloth from her. ‘I have known about it for some time, my lady. There were...rumours, you understand.’
‘Yet you said nothing to me.’ A chill of realisation shot through her. Elise knew about Morwenna when she introduced herself to me at the Abbey!
Unhappily, Elise twisted the cloth. ‘I could not. I dare not. My lady, I lied about Girande being sick this morning. I asked her if I could tend to you because I wanted to warn you. I have come to like you...to respect you.’
Isobel’s heart turned to lead.
‘My lady, take care with Count Lucien, do not anger him. I fear for you.’
Isobel stared. ‘You think Count Lucien would harm me?’
‘My lady, Morwenna was kept prisoner.’ Elise spoke in a rush, her face was red. ‘She was not allowed out, she—’
‘You are mistaken. Elise, you have it all wrong.’
Elise’s eyes were glassy with tears. ‘My lady, please take care, you are in grave danger—’
‘Nonsense!’ It went completely against the grain to believe that Lucien would harm her. Last night he had winkled her out of the chapel, he had fed her and watered her and put her to bed. He had held her in his arms, allowing her to grieve while he had stroked her hair. He had made no demands. If he were any other man she might call his behaviour loving. Lucien? Hurt her? No.
To be sure, he would hurt her if he were to annul their marriage, but Elise was not referring to that kind of hurt. I trust him. Lucien had locked Morwenna up for her own good. That was the truth. Grief might have tangled her thoughts, but none the less, she was clear on one point. Lucien would never hurt her. Not physically.
‘My lord would never knowingly hurt a woman.’
A tear glistened on Elise’s cheek. ‘I wish I could believe it.’
‘Elise!’
Isobel drew breath to say more, but Elise rushed on. ‘My lady, Count Lucien denied Morwenna her freedom. He neglected her for years. And then, when his spy told him that you had grown into a beauty, he had her murdered. My lady, you must take care, he—’
‘Elise, that’s enough! This talk of spies and murder is madness. My lord...you simply do not understand.’ Isobel had no intention of revealing to Elise what Lucien had told her in confidence. She fixed her with a look. ‘I thank you for your interest, but you overreach yourself when you speak to me in this manner.’
Elise made a gulping sound, dropped the linen cloth, and stumbled from the bedchamber. The door banged, and the latch clicked into place.
Lucien—a murderer? The idea was preposterous.
Absently, Isobel bent to retrieve the cloth. Elise had let what she had seen in the east tower eat away at her. That tower must be cleared. Today.
She dragged the grey gown over her head, almost thankful for Elise’s extraordinary outburst. Somehow, it had distracted her. It was unthinkable that Lucien would harm a woman. By coming here this morning, and by speaking her mind, Elise had clarified Isobel’s thoughts.
Lucien was a good man. He could scarcely be more different from the carefree tourney champion she had envisaged. And that was something for which she could only be grateful. The real Lucien was worth fighting for.
Secondly, the sooner that festering chamber at the top of the east tower was cleared, the better for everyone.
* * *
It happened towards the end of Christmastide, when Twelfth Night was almost upon them. Lucien had been patrolling the roads around Troyes every day, to no avail. His quarry seemed to have gone to earth.
Finally, his luck turned. He had just trotted through the Madeleine Gate at the head of his conroi when something in the moat caught his eye. The moat encircling Troyes was a dry one—a deep dip in front of the city walls—and the townsfolk were in the habit of using it as a midden. Refuse of all sorts was flung into it—rotting vegetable peelings, cooked animal bones. And worse.
Reining in, Lucien found himself staring at a bundle of brown rags and what looked like a tangle of greasy brown hair. He felt himself go still. Somewhere a cock was crowing.
‘Joris, search the moat.’
‘Not the moat, my lord.’ Joris pulled a face. ‘I did that yesterday.’
‘The moat, Joris. I have a feeling you were less than thorough. Sergeant, you go with him.’
‘Yes, mon seigneur,’ the sergeant said, dismounting smartly.
Joris sent him a pleading look. ‘It stinks down there.’
‘Thank God it’s not summer then, it’s worse in summer. Start over there.’ Lucien pointed towards the pile of brown rags. ‘You are my squire, I assume it is your ambition to become a knight?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘However distasteful the task, a knight cannot afford to be less than thorough. Get off that horse and into the ditch.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
Nose wrinkling, Joris obeyed. Lucien watched him slither into the moat. He didn’t have long to wait. When Joris next looked towards him, his face was white as bone.
‘My lord! Count Lucien! There’s a b-body. It...he...’ the young voice cracked ‘...he’s been murdered.’
Lucien had known who it was even before he had seen the face. It was the man who he had been hunting for nigh on two months. The man who had taken the relic and murdered Geoffrey; the man who he feared might come after Isobel. The body was battered; there had clearly been a fight. The thief’s face and knuckles were bruised, and there were marks about his neck. He’d been strangled. Lucien felt only relief. Geoffrey’s murderer is no longer loose in Champagne. Isobel is safe.
* * *
Because of the body, Lucien left Troyes that evening later than planned.
Count Henry had to be informed of what they had found. Lucien had spoken to him, and suggested that the moat should be cleared weekly. He had also suggested that his former steward, Sir Arthur, should be promoted to captain of the Guardians.
That done, Lucien had sought out Geoffrey’s family. He had been planning to visit them in any case. The year had turned, and Lucien had wanted to reassure himself that Geoffrey’s mother and sister were surviving. It had been good to tell Nicola that whilst her son’s murderer had not faced Count Henry’s justice, justice of sorts had been done. He had given her more money, telling her that Geoffrey had earned it by his service at Ravenshold, and that he had only now discovered that more was due. He wanted to help. It was obvious Nicola struggled to put food on the table.
Lucien had been hoping to gain the trust of the girl, Clare. He was certain she knew about Geoffrey’s involvement with the dead man. Unfortunately, Clare was loyal to a fault, and would say not a word.
* * *
‘The mist is thickening, my lord.’ Joris’s saddle creaked as he leaned on the cantle to peer over his shoulder. ‘We might miss our way.’
They were heading back to Raven
shold. Strips of fog were weaving in and out of the trees, like wraiths in the gathering dark. Ghostly grey pools lay in the hollows.
‘Never fear, we shan’t lose the road,’ Lucien said. Joris was nervy, and understandably so. It wasn’t every day the boy found a body in a ditch.
‘Night falls too soon around the turn of the year,’ Joris added, shrinking into his hood.
Lucien grunted, he was thinking about the dead man. ‘He might have met his end in a tavern brawl,’ he muttered. ‘It’s a pity Clare was not more forthcoming about Geoffrey’s involvement.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
Lucien swore under his breath. Whatever Geoffrey had done, it could not have warranted his death.
Joris’s teeth were chattering, and his face had taken a blue tinge. The dark was closing in on them. ‘We’ll be home soon, Joris.’
Tonight, Lucien would tell Isobel that his stint with the Guardian Knights was over. Count Henry had more than enough men, and with Sir Arthur as their captain, the roads and highways of Champagne would be secure. Hopefully, Isobel would be able to put the entire business out of her mind.
Isobel is waiting for me at Ravenshold. Grinning to himself, unable to believe the way his heart lifted when he thought of her, Lucien heeled Demon into a trot. Joris shot him an enquiring look.
‘Don’t dawdle,’ Lucien said. ‘You were right about the mist, it is thickening.’
* * *
Lucien emerged from the stables into a courtyard so murky it might have been midnight. Above the circle of spluttering torches, there were no stars. The mist was crawling over the curtain walls. The cookhouse was shrouded in grey, and he could barely see the hall. As was his habit, he counted the lights up on the walkway. They glowed weakly tonight, two to the left of the gatehouse, two to the right, and...
A flash of scarlet caught his attention. A woman was on the walkway, and the scarlet—a cloak, he thought—was an extra flare of brightness in the mist and the dark. A red banner in the night.
A scarlet cloak? Lucien’s heart cramped. Morwenna had owned a cloak in just such a scarlet, it had been lined with squirrel. A light on the curtain wall wavered, dimmed by a finger of mist creeping in from the road. Clenching his jaw, Lucien found himself striding towards the steps. He began to climb.
It was quiet as death on the ramparts. He had stepped into another world. Somewhere out there lay the village. Lord, the mist was so thick, Lucien could scarcely see his own bailey. The silence was unearthly.
Pale light streamed from the stables and gatehouse. A candle shone briefly at the top of the west tower—Isobel or her maid must be in the bedchamber. Then the mist rolled around the tower and the light was gone. For the space of a heartbeat, Lucien was alone. There was mist. There was dark. And bone-numbing cold.
The sound when it came had hairs rising on the back of his neck. Singing. Singing? The woman was close. The walkway glistened with damp. Lucien lifted a torch from its bracket and followed the sound as a hound follows a scent. It was a love-song. Lucien wasn’t one for love-songs, but this one he knew. Morwenna had loved it. She had sung it for him a number of times in the days of their courtship. The voice on the walkway was an eerie echo of Morwenna’s. The woman was not in sight, but the similarity in sound chilled him to his core. That cloak, that voice, that song...
Morwenna! Mon Dieu, what witchery was this? Morwenna was dead, it could not be her. A cold dread had him in its grip. Lucien was reluctant to move forwards, reluctant to come face to face with...who? Who is it? Heat from the torch warmed his hand and face. And there it was again. Singing—soft and clear, each note sung true. It was a song from the south, and it was being sung exactly as Morwenna had sung it, with the same phrases, the same cadences, even the same plangency. It couldn’t be Morwenna, Morwenna had been laid to her rest. But that voice—that song—he was listening to her ghost.
The mist was writhing about the ramparts like a living thing. Gripping the torch, Lucien forced himself through it. The woman must be beyond the next turn in the walls. It was not Morwenna; this was no wraith from his past. There had to be a rational explanation. Notwithstanding, ice filled his veins. He dreaded taking that step round the corner, dreaded what he would find. God help me. It is not Morwenna.
Thoughts do not follow time’s rules. Dozens can pass through a man’s head while he braces himself. And there on the walkway, with the love-song from his past bleeding gently into the fog-bound night, Lucien’s thoughts all but unmanned him. It is not Morwenna. It is not. That was the truth, it had to be, because if it was Morwenna singing...
His marriage to Isobel was invalid. His chest seized up. His heart was in his mouth, as hard and cold as the stones in the parapet wall. Morwenna was dead. Has there been a hideous mistake?
His marriage to Isobel was the truest thing he had ever known. It was not a lie. Grasping the torch so tightly his knuckles gleamed white, Lucien stepped round the corner.
‘Who is there?’
The woman stood by a sentry post, cloak gleaming bright as blood through the mist. Her face was white, a blur.
The song cut off. ‘My lord?’
‘Who is that?’
The torch flared, tendrils of smoke were swallowed by the January night. The cloak flickered—a dying ember in the dark—and was gone.
Lucien flung himself after her. He was fast, but the woman had wings. By the time he reached the next bend in the walkway, she was gone. She was not in the bailey—no one could have got down those steps so quickly. He leaned through a crenel, straining his eyes for the road below. Nothing. Only darkness and mist. No swirling red cloak. No Morwenna.
Briefly, he shut his eyes. He was not a superstitious man. Father Thomas had told him Morwenna was dead. She was dead. So why in God’s name did he feel this doubt? Why was dread gnawing at his innards? His heart was pounding so loudly he could hear it. Why?
Isobel is my soul-mate. Isobel is my wife.
Across the bailey, lights winked through the windows of the hall and keep. Isobel would be wondering where he was. He must join her.
As Lucien reached the head of the steps, he frowned. The dread had not left him. He couldn’t understand how he felt, but he wanted to try. Isobel is mine. Even the possibility that Morwenna might still be alive and his marriage to Isobel might be invalid was not to be borne. His lips twisted. Who would have thought it? Such a ridiculous notion, and it all but unmans me!
Isobel is mine. The thought of losing her was extraordinarily painful, far too painful to contemplate. Lucien increased his pace as he crossed the bailey and went into the keep to find her.
* * *
He caught up with her as she was leaving the cookhouse.
‘There you are.’ Taking Isobel’s hand, he pulled her close. He only intended to give her a light kiss; he hadn’t bargained for the sense of rightness that flooded through him the instant their lips touched. The smell of her—of Isobel, warm and womanly—brought every sense to life. He pulled her close, deepening the kiss. Mine.
A serving girl edged past them. Dimly, Lucien heard her smothered giggle. He ignored the giggle and the kiss went on. When he touched his tongue to Isobel’s, his loins tightened. He fought with the impulse to stroke her breasts.
‘My lord!’ She broke free, smiling. Blushing like a rose. ‘Anyone might see us.’
With difficulty he eased back. He had forgotten himself. There was only Isobel. His mind was filled with desire—its hot, fiery pulse was fierce in his veins.
She cleared her throat. ‘I have been checking on the dough for tomorrow’s baking. We shall be eating soon, are you hungry?’
‘Mmm.’ He shifted closer. ‘But not for food.’
The serving girl emerged from the cookhouse with a batch of loaves for supper. Lucien heard another giggle and Isobel’s blush deepened to scarlet.
Tightening his hold on Isobel, Lucien steered her towards the twisting stairs that led to their bedchamber. He would tell her about finding Geoffrey’s kil
ler later. First, he must communicate with her in an altogether different way...
‘Come along, little dove, we can send for food later.’
* * *
Lying on the bed afterwards, Lucien wove a tress of golden hair round his fingers and wondered why his heart ached. Isobel was dozing, a smile on her lips. Once he had convinced her that his most urgent need was not for food, her response had been as satisfactory as a man could wish.
I have lost all honour.
He felt he ought to have told Isobel what he had seen—what he imagined he had seen—up on the battlements. He should have told her before they had made love. Which was quite ridiculous, because his fear that he had seen Morwenna was completely unfounded. Just as his fear that his marriage to Isobel might be bigamous. He was being illogical. Neither Arthur nor Father Thomas would lie to him. It was ridiculous the way the woman on the battlements had lowered his spirits.
Isobel’s hair was soft as silk, fragrant with her scent. He lay at her side, head pillowed on one hand and studied her. Isobel. Other than Isobel, Lucien had never lain long enough with a woman to watch her lying in a doze. Something in his chest twisted.
Mine.
* * *
Feeling a tug on her hair, Isobel opened her eyes.
‘Will you sleep till dawn?’ Lucien’s broad shoulders were silhouetted by candlelight as he looked down at her. ‘We’ve not eaten. I’m hungry.’
‘We could ring for Girande. She can bring us a tray.’
‘No, there’s something you must see. After that we can eat in the hall.’ Leaning forwards, he pressed a kiss to her forehead.
* * *
As they dressed, the imprint of his kiss lingered on Isobel’s brow. There had been nothing sexual about it—it had felt like a kiss of affection. Of tenderness. Glancing sidelong at him, Isobel found herself smiling. Lucien was sparing with gestures of affection. He usually only gave them when he was intent on seduction. Was her cynical, martial husband learning to love her?
‘What must I see?’ she asked.
In the act of buckling on his belt, he looked across, eyes shadowed. ‘It concerns Morwenna.’
Isobel felt her face fall. ‘Oh?’
Carol Townend Page 23