Lady Isobel's Champion

Chapter Three

Lucien stared after her. She disobeyed me! It was rare that Lucien’s orders were disobeyed, but it did happen. He sometimes had trouble with young squires when they first joined him, but they soon learned that if they were to succeed they had best obey him. He marched into the sunlit courtyard. It would be the same with Isobel, she would soon learn.

He felt a momentary pang for the bride he had envisioned—pretty, demure, obedient. Lucien had hoped his second wife would put his wishes first; he had hoped she would quietly take charge of the domestic side of his life, leaving him free to focus on military matters.

Lucien was honouring the betrothal contract with Isobel of Turenne because it had been his father’s wish. He had long regretted his inability to grant his father that wish, just as he regretted the bitter quarrel that had followed. A quarrel that had never been mended. Finally he was in a position to honour that betrothal contract, and it was a blow to discover that Isobel of Turenne was not the demure lady of his imaginings. She needed schooling.

He gritted his teeth. She seemed intelligent; she would, he hoped, be a quick learner. She had reached the convent gate. He watched her slight figure whip through it, veil and gown flying, and increased his pace. It was a pity the nuns had not instilled in her the importance of obedience. Clearly, it was up to him to teach her that particular virtue …

Isobel picked up her skirts, raced through the courtyard, and burst into the street. She had no idea why the urge to catch the hooded man had spurred her into such unladylike action, but the thought had been accompanied by an irresistible rush of excitement. He must be caught!

Her heart was pounding. She had brought the relic with her from the south, and she felt responsible for it. It was only being lent to the Abbey here for the duration of the Winter Fair and if it was lost, the good sisters at St Foye’s in Conques would be seriously impoverished. Pilgrims flocked to pray over it, and their offerings brought in much-needed revenues. Those nuns had looked after her for years. She could not stand by and watch while their precious relic was stolen.

Brisk footsteps were coming up behind her. Count Lucien. She heard him murmur something to the startled nun at the Abbey gate.

The relic!

Ahead, the thief—Isobel had marked his shabby brown cloak and hood—slipped round a corner. She hurtled after him. The street was narrow and the way was all but blocked by wooden stalls. Townsfolk and merchants were haggling over prices. The Winter Fair had not officially begun, so this must be a market area. On either side, tall houses loured overhead, and a line of shop-fronts opened directly on to the road. Isobel skirted a pottery stall and a couple of wine-merchants.

‘Excuse me.’

‘Watch it! Don’t shove.’

Ahead, the brown hood bobbed up and down in the press.

‘Stop that man!’ Isobel cried, pointing. ‘Stop, thief!’

The townsfolk turned. Stared. Pulse thudding, Isobel forged on. The brown hood … she could no longer see it. Her chest was tight, and by the time she reached the end of the street, her lungs were aching. The brown hood had gone.

She was drawing breath at a small crossroads as Lucien ran up. ‘Which way, my lord? You’re taller than me, did you see where he went?’

A lock of dark hair fell across the jagged scar on Count Lucien’s temple. Strong fingers wrapped round hers. ‘My lady—Isobel—what in blazes are you about?’

She gestured at the crossroads. ‘Where did he go? Did you see him?’

Count Lucien’s grip shifted, strong fingers banded like iron about her wrist. ‘It is not wise to run about Troyes unaccompanied at this time of year.’

‘But, my lord, the thief …’ Pulling against Lucien’s hold, Isobel peered down a shadowy alley. A pair of lovers were locked in a passionate embrace. The man had lifted the woman’s skirt; Isobel caught a shocking glimpse of white thigh. Flushing, she drew back, and frowned through her embarrassment. ‘My lord, please release me.’

The look on that woman’s face … she looked as though she were in ecstasy. Ecstasy? That did not tally with anything the nuns or her mother had told her. Or Anna for that matter …

‘I shall release you when you understand that it is not safe to be running about the town like this. Lord, have the nuns taught you nothing? You ought to take more care of yourself. As you have already seen, the town fills with thieves at this time of year.’

Isobel twisted her wrist, but her betrothed had not finished.

‘My lady, the Winter Fair attracts men of all stamps. I would have your promise that you will take care. Further, I would have your assurance that in future when I say you nay, that you heed me.’

Her heart lurched. ‘Luc—my lord?’

‘Did you not hear me back in the church? You are to be my countess. It is not your place to catch thieves.’

‘My apologies, my lord.’ Isobel bit her lip. Those blue eyes were boring into her, hard as sapphires. She had heard him, but in the rush of excitement her one thought had been to keep sight of the thief. Holy Mother, don’t tell me Lucien is going to turn out to be an arrogant boor like poor Anna’s husband. In her mind, Lucien was a tourney champion, not an arrogant boor.

Avoiding that hard, accusing gaze, Isobel risked a glance down another alley. There was no sign of the brown hood. ‘He got away.’

‘Isobel, leave it. Count Henry’s knights will deal with him.’

‘But, my lord, there must be something we can do. St Foye’s is not as rich as the Abbey, they cannot afford to lose their relic.’

Lucien felt a pang such as he had not felt in years. His anger began to dissipate and he could not account for it, save to conclude that Isobel’s green eyes were altogether too appealing. Her chest was still heaving from her race through the streets. Her cheeks were flushed and several blonde wisps had escaped her plait and were curling about her face. She looked more human than she had done in the convent lodge. And doubly attractive. He became conscious of a strong feeling of possessiveness, akin to pride. She is mine. When slightly dishevelled, Isobel de Turenne was extraordinarily desirable. He could imagine just how she might look after an encounter with a lover …

The shiver that ran through him was easy to place. Desire. It had been surprisingly invigorating chasing after her. It was as though she had awoken something primitive in him, something that had been sleeping for far too long. She is very beautiful. How many years had it been since Lucien had allowed himself the luxury of feeling this sort of desire? Without wanting to analyse it, it had been far too long. Lucien was somewhat put out to find that the desire he felt for Isobel was not entirely comfortable. It was mixed with regret. With uncertainty. How will she react when she learns about Morwenna?

‘My lady, there are officers in Troyes responsible for maintaining order. It is their duty to catch the thief, not yours. You …’ Lucien paused for emphasis ‘… are a lady, not one of Count Henry’s Guardian Knights.’

‘Guardian Knights?’

‘The Count of Champagne has established a conroi of knights to maintain law and order at the time of the Fairs. He would be most offended to hear that you were taking on their duties. As would his knights.’

Those great green eyes lowered, she appeared to be studying the wall of the house behind him. ‘Yes, my lord.’

Slowly Lucien released her, and when she did not dart off again down a side street he let out a breath he had not realised he had been holding. What a sight she had made though, tearing through the town! Lucien had had no idea that a girl, hampered by trailing skirts, could run so fast. She is as fleet as a doe.

‘You really want to catch that man.’

‘As I said, St Foye’s is not a wealthy convent, my lord. There is no treasury filled with silver and gold as there is at the monastery. The nuns need that relic, it’s almost all they have.’

Lucien leaned his shoulder against the oak frame of one of the houses. She really seemed to care. It was possible she was using the theft as an excuse to escape the Abbey. Likely, she had spent too much of her life penned up in a convent. Lucien pushed back the guilt, although he couldn’t blame her if she felt that way, it would drive him mad to be so cooped up. ‘I am told you have only just arrived in Troyes,’ he said.

‘That is so, we arrived at the Abbey yesterday.’

‘And before that? How much time did you spend at St Foye’s Convent and how much in Turenne?’

‘Mostly I was with the nuns, my lord. Although, I did come home occasionally …’ her face clouded ‘… when my mother needed me.’

Yes, there is no doubt of it. Isobel is using the theft as a means to escape the confines of the Abbey. I would do the same in her place. And she mourns her mother, deeply.

Lucien could not help her over her grief for her mother, but he could offer her assistance elsewhere. He crooked his arm at her. ‘Since we seem to have lost our quarry, perhaps you would permit me to show you the town?’

Her answering smile was bright and innocent. It should not have set off a disturbing ache in Lucien’s belly. Desire.

‘Thank you, my lord. I should enjoy that very much.’

Lucien tucked her arm into his. He had surprised himself with his offer to show her around Troyes. I like her. I like Isobel de Turenne. Of course, she must learn the value of obedience, but after nine years of hell, maybe his luck was turning. I will teach her to behave with decorum. Outside the bedchamber. Inside, however …

He shot her a look. She was walking demurely at his side, every inch the lady again, which was promising. If the memory of their frantic hunt through the streets had not been so vivid, he would think he had dreamed it. A tell-tale curl, freed at some point during the chase, curled down her breast. There was a wildness about her. Lady Isobel de Turenne had learned to look demure, but not so far beneath the surface there was a hint of the wild, a lack of artifice. He rather liked it.

They walked slowly to the end of the alley and arrived in a square near one of the canals.

‘These canals power the water mills, there are several in Troyes,’ he told her. ‘And, of course you must see Count Henry’s palace.’

‘I’d love to. I’ve seen so little.’

That twist of hair rippled and gleamed like spun gold. And her lips—they truly were the colour of ripe cherries.

‘Abbess Ursula was going to confine me to the Abbey precincts after I …’ she flushed ‘… rode out to Ravenshold.’

‘Oh?’

‘I didn’t have leave to go.’ The flush deepened. ‘Truth to tell, I knew she would withhold permission, so I didn’t ask. I only saw Ravenshold from the road. I should have liked to see inside.’

Lucien murmured something non-committal about how he would have been there to greet her if he had known she was planning to arrive so soon. He led her on to the bridge over the canal. ‘I take it that was when the Abbess dismissed your escort?’

‘When we returned to the Abbey, she packed them off to the barracks at Troyes Castle. Two of them have never left Turenne before, I hope they are all right. Pierre is sure to be missing Turenne.’

‘And you? Will you miss Turenne?’

Her look was impenetrable. ‘Me? No, my lord.’ She paused, adding softly. ‘I have been trained to be your wife, my home is with you.’

However softly she uttered it, it remained a rebuke. Lucien felt his face stiffen, he was not used to criticism. Particularly since she had every right to be aggrieved. He had kept her waiting.

Searching for a less contentious topic, Lucien leaned on the guardrail at the centre of the bridge, and directed her attention to Count Henry’s palace. This was a long, three-storied residence lying alongside the canal. The lower windows had old-fashioned Roman arches, but the stonework above the upper windows flowed in curves that were distinctly arabesque, mirroring a design Lucien had seen in the Aquitaine. The higher windows were glazed.

‘There’s Count Henry’s palace, where you will lodge until our wedding.’

Intelligent green eyes fixed on the palace. ‘There’s a landing stage.’

‘I don’t expect it’s much used, except for delivering supplies to the kitchens and so forth.’ He watched her study the palace … the landing stage … the canal, and was taken with an impulse to run his finger down the line of her nose. He wanted to turn her face to his, to taste those tantalising cherry-coloured lips …

‘Thank you for showing me, my lord. I look forward to moving in.’

Lucien cleared his throat. ‘As I mentioned, I have asked if there is space for you today, but with the Winter Fair about to begin, the town is bursting at the seams. We may have to wait a few days for an apartment to fall vacant.’

‘There’s no need to bespeak an entire apartment, my lord, I know I arrived earlier than expected. I am happy to share a chamber with other ladies. I am used to it.’

‘I shall bear that in mind. Come, let me take you to the garrison, it’s not far from here.’

‘I can see my men? You are thoughtful, my lord. Although I should be returning to the Abbey soon. The Abbess will—’

‘The Abbess can hardly object to my squiring you about town. I am your betrothed.’

‘I wish we had found the relic,’ she said. ‘Did you know it works miracles?’

Lucien went cold. Isobel’s remark, innocent though it seemed, had him instantly on his guard. He couldn’t stomach a second wife who believed in miracles. Morwenna had given him a lifelong aversion to such nonsense …

‘Yesterday a young woman was brought into the church,’ she was saying. ‘Her legs were paralysed. When she lowered her scarf through the aperture in the altar, it touched the reliquary and her paralysis left her.’

Lucien felt a prickling of unease. ‘You believe that?’

She glanced at him, observed the way he was watching her, and a small line appeared on her brow. His betrothed was clearly more sensitive to subtle shifts of mood than Morwenna had been.

‘I believe the young woman believed it, my lord. And I know she walked from the church, because I saw her myself. As to whether it was a genuine miracle …’ she lifted her shoulders ‘… who can say? I do know the relic brings revenues to the nuns, revenues they use to do many good works. Why, the sisters at St Foye’s …’

Lucien hid his unease and they strolled towards Troyes Castle with Isobel earnestly listing the many good works the nuns undertook in Conques. Lucien found himself torn. Isobel de Turenne was, on the surface, everything a man could want. She had poise, beauty, breeding. And that tantalising hint of the wild. He would not have been surprised to learn that Lady Isobel de Turenne was the subject of many a chanson. Knights would be happy to wear her favour and fulfil quests for her.

However, this mention of miracles worried him.

‘I do not hold with miracles,’ he said, carefully. ‘It seems to me that belief in miracles is a poisonous combination of delusion and wishful thinking.’

‘Poisonous?’ Green eyes fixed on his. ‘Sometimes delusion can be a good thing, my lord.’

‘Can it?’

‘You are too cynical, my lord. You forget, I saw that young woman walk with my own eyes. Before yesterday, she hadn’t walked for years.’

Lucien shook his head. Isobel’s convent innocence was refreshing, but such naivety could be dangerous. ‘I cannot help but wonder how you knew the young woman had not walked for so long.’

‘I asked her.’

‘And you believe everything you are told?’

Isobel’s brow wrinkled. ‘Not everything, but I believe the young woman was telling the truth. You will doubtless say her paralysis was caused by a paralysis of spirit. I saw someone find her feet again. Delusion?’

‘Probably.’

She gripped his sleeve. ‘My lord, does it matter what caused that young woman’s paralysis? Does it matter what cured her? If a scrap of cloth helped in any way, I cannot see the wrong in it. One way or another, faith cured her.’

The moat and drawbridge of Troyes Castle were at the end of the street. Covering her hand with his, Lucien led her towards it. ‘My lady, do you not think there are those in the Church who might take advantage of the credulous with all this talk of faith and miracles?’

Her veil shifted as she tipped her head on one side and considered his question. And then she was smiling up at him, and the world seemed to shift beneath his feet. She is so lovely. So innocent. He almost missed a step. At one time, Morwenna had been his pattern of perfection, which was doubtless why Isobel’s golden hair and striking green eyes brought an unwelcome question to the forefront of his mind.

Do Isobel’s heart and spirit mirror her external beauty?

‘Yes, my lord, that has occurred to me, but I truly do not think it matters.’

‘No?’

‘No.’ She spoke with calm certainty. ‘If someone uses a relic as a means of thinking themselves into health, in my view that is all to the good.’

‘We are back to faith again, I see.’

She smiled. ‘So we are.’

‘My lady, will you not agree that if someone can think herself into health, then the opposite may also be true? She could think herself ill.’

‘Possibly, I am not sure. These matters are too deep for me. All I know is that I saw that woman walk again.’ Her mouth turned down. ‘I can’t help feeling responsible for the relic since it was I who brought it from Conques. I owe a debt of gratitude to those nuns. Is it so wrong to want it returned to them?’

He stiffened. ‘I advise you to leave it to the Guardians.’

The castle portcullis and barbican stood a few yards away on the other side of the drawbridge, they had almost reached the barracks. Lucien guided her on to the drawbridge, noticing that his rebuke had hit home, she was avoiding his eyes. ‘I am wise to you, my lady,’ he said, lightening his tone. ‘If you are completely honest, you will admit that catching the thief was not all you wished to do when you ran into the streets.’

White teeth bit into a full lower lip. ‘Oh?’

Lucien leaned in and a delicate cloud of scent enfolded him. It was like a breath of summer air. Honeysuckle and roses. ‘You wanted to explore.’

Her sudden, deep flush told him that he had struck a nerve. ‘My lord, I …’

‘There’s no need to dissemble. You are not a woman to be kept in a cage, not even a gilded one. Your loyalty to the sisters in the south is admirable, and I do not blame you for seizing the chance to snatch a breath of freedom.’ He gestured at the barbican. ‘This is where we shall find your men. Come, allow me the pleasure of continuing to escort you.’

As they crossed the drawbridge and entered the bailey, Lucien realised that he was not simply giving lip-service to the usual courtesies. It was indeed a pleasure to escort her.

After years of being cloistered, Isobel found it something of a novelty to be on the arm of a man with Lucien Vernon’s influence. At the garrison, a quick word from her betrothed had them swiftly ushered across whispering rushes into a hall larger than any Isobel had seen in the south. In size it rivalled the Cathedral in Conques.

Wide-eyed, she looked about her. Without question, this was a hall for soldiers, but she had never seen such splendour. Rank on rank of knights’ pennants hung from the beams, their colours—red, green, gold, blue, silver—were brightened by light filtering through traceried windows. Flames flared in a cavernous fireplace. Antique arms gleamed on the walls. The table on the raised dais at the end was covered in a damask cloth so dazzlingly white it almost blinded. Stacks of wooden serving dishes were piled on side-tables; there were rows of wine-jugs; trays of clay goblets …

‘The Countess of Champagne is the daughter of King Louis, is she not?’ she asked.