Lady Isobel's Champion (7 page)

Diving into a rush of townsfolk streaming down the street, Isobel went with the flow until the sign of the Black Boar was swinging overhead. The tavern door was shut as it had been before, and the shutters were firmly closed. Black smoke floated out of a louvre near the roof ridge. The door opened, and a youth staggered out on a wild flurry of laughter.

‘There!’ Isobel was delighted to have found the inn again. With the streets so full, it had crossed her mind that she might lose her way. Beside her, Elise had fallen ominously quiet. ‘Elise, what’s the matter?’

‘My lady, you...you are not thinking of going in that place?’

Elise’s eyes were startled. Shocked. Isobel felt a pang of disquiet. From the outside, the Black Boar looked much like many other wayside taverns. Slightly squalid. The daub was falling away from the lower walls, and it could have done with a fresh coat of whitewash, but that closed door aside, there was nothing to mark it out as a place where men paid for anything other than food and lodgings...

Elise knows about the Black Boar.

‘You know what this place is,’ Isobel said quietly.

Elise caught her hand. ‘I know it is no place for the future Countess d’Aveyron. My lady, don’t go in. We would be far safer finding that apothecary.’

* * *

Lucien was riding towards the Abbey in the company of his squire, Joris. Count Henry’s steward had informed him that a bedchamber overlooking the canal would shortly be free. The chamber would not be ready until tomorrow—the coming fair was to blame for that, the Count’s palace was packed. At such short notice, Lucien counted himself lucky that decent lodgings had been found for his betrothed at all. And thanks to a sudden indisposition on the part of a cousin of the Countess of Champagne, a small solar was also available.

Isobel will be pleased.

Their horses picked their way between porters with trolleys and handcarts. Chattering housewives squeezed by with baskets over their arms. Scavenging strays wove in and out of the horses’ legs.

Lucien was looking forward to watching Isobel’s face when he told her about the apartment. He wanted to see those green eyes light up.
Much as she might feel affection for the nuns in the south, she had had enough of convent life.
He couldn’t blame her.

He had almost reached the Abbey when he saw them. Isobel and Elise—the shy girl he had met at the convent—were sneaking out of the gate. Drawing rein, Lucien watched them drag up their hoods and scurry into the throng.
What are they up to?

He waited until they had reached the end of the street before he dug his heels into Demon’s sides. As he did so, he bit back a grin and reminded himself that he must take care, that women were not to be trusted. If he had learned nothing else from Morwenna, it was that.
Women are unreliable.

‘Who are those women, my lord?’ Joris asked, following his gaze.

‘The one on the right is my betrothed, Lady Isobel de Turenne. The other is her maid, Elise.’

Realising that he and Joris were somewhat conspicuous on their horses, Lucien dismounted and motioned Joris to do the same.

‘We are following them, my lord? Why don’t you hail them?’

Lucien shook his head. ‘If I did that, I might never learn what she’s up to.’

‘Why don’t you simply ask her, my lord?’

Lucien sent his squire a pitying look and pressed on. Joris had a lot to learn.

It soon became clear where Isobel was heading. It was hard to credit that a gently bred girl like Lady Isobel de Turenne would knowingly return to the Black Boar, but he would swear they were heading that way. He had warned her off, and she was taking no notice.

‘Stubborn,’ he muttered, as they entered the square and the Black Boar came into view a few yards ahead. As he had predicted, Isobel and Elise were outside. ‘She’s a stubborn wench.’ Isobel’s tenacity left him surprisingly sanguine, more intrigued than angry.
What is she up to?

Isobel and Elise were arguing. Lucien couldn’t catch the words, but it didn’t take a mind-reader to work out what the problem was. Elise was reluctant to enter. Elise had sense. ‘And a good thing too,’ he murmured.

‘My lord?’

‘Never mind.’ Closing the distance between him and his stubborn betrothed, Lucien thrust Demon’s reins at Joris. ‘Wait here.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

He reached the tavern moments after Isobel and her maid had slipped inside. Elise might have sense, but Isobel...

The inn fell quiet as he entered. The fug was worse than before. Smoke stung his eyes and caught at the back of his throat. Lord, what a place. The air reeked of boiled cabbages and garlic.

Isobel—his future countess, with her unwilling companion trailing after her—marched boldly up to the serving hatch. Sensibly, Elise had swathed her face with her veil, she looked like a girl from Araby. Not so Isobel. She tossed back the hood of her cloak, giving all who cared to look her way a clear sight of that open, innocent face.

Doubtless, Isobel thought she would be safe because she had done no wrong. Leaning against a wooden pillar, Lucien crossed his arms and prepared to wait. Isobel must be made to see that convent naivety was no protection, not in here. His bride-to-be needed to be taught a sharp lesson. The local girls would not take well to the arrival of two fresh and pretty rivals, and Isobel and Elise were drawing all eyes.
Thank God I saw them. They will want rescuing.
He was almost looking forward to it.

Isobel was speaking to the potboy—Lucien caught the gleam of silver as she pressed something into his hand. It flashed in on him what she was doing. Through the smoke haze, Lucien saw her lips move but customers were talking again, a low buzz of interest that drowned out what she was saying.

Lucien didn’t have to hear her to know that she was asking about the coming tournament
. I told her not to attend. I was thinking of her safety and yet here she is, flouting my authority.
More and more of Isobel’s character was being revealed with every passing moment. She was stubborn, she was foolhardy, and above all she was disobedient.

The ramifications of Lucien’s hasty first marriage had shown him the importance of discipline. Of obedience. His father had never forgiven him for the dishonour he had done Isobel in marrying Morwenna. Since that time, Lucien had done his best to make up for his youthful inadequacies. He strove to conduct himself with honour.

He bitterly regretted that his father would not see that he was at last fulfilling his promise to Isobel. He sighed. It was a pity the bride his father had chosen showed such signs of waywardness. Lucien had expected that a lady, a convent-bred bride, would be above reproach. And here she was, in the town brothel, trying to bribe information out of a potboy.

Somewhere in the shadows to the right of the serving hatch, a woman—a bosomy redhead—let off a stream of invective. Her voice was coarse, and her words weren’t fit for a lady’s ears. Isobel turned towards her just as she charged out of the shadows.

Lucien wanted his second marriage to be an improvement on his first, and to that end, he must ensure Isobel recognised his authority. Marriage was all about authority. That was the mistake he had made with Morwenna, he had left it too late before asserting his authority. True, he had been little more than a stripling when he had wed her—Morwenna had been his senior by five years—but it had been a bad error. By the time he had realised his mistake, a pattern had been established and Morwenna had become too set in her ways to change.

That wasn’t going to happen where Isobel was concerned.

As the redhead’s magnificent bosom heaved, Lucien pushed away from the pillar.

The redhead looked belligerently at Isobel. ‘Who the hell are you?’ Her voice was sharp as a saw.

Isobel was such an innocent she smiled. ‘You are speaking to me,
madame
?’

The redhead set her hands on her hips, her lip curled. ‘If you are looking for work, you are wasting your time. We have enough girls. Good girls. Girls who know their business. You don’t look as though you would know your way round a monk’s—’

Lucien stepped into the light of a spitting candle and cleared his throat. ‘Ladies, a word if I may?’

Isobel whirled round. Elise went white and ducked behind the potboy.

‘Ladies, have you forgotten our appointment?’ Digging into his pouch, he tossed a couple of pennies in the direction of the redhead and offered Isobel his arm. Isobel lifted her nose, but she took his arm. The redhead scrambled for the coins.

Elise was hanging her head in shame. Not so Isobel. No sooner had she stepped over the threshold than she snatched her hand from his arm. ‘You followed us,’ she said, eyes sparking green fire. ‘You have no right.’

Lucien set his jaw. So much for thanks, did she not realise that the redhead had been on the point of tearing her limb from limb? ‘You are my betrothed—that gives me the right. Particularly since you came here against my express wishes.’

Isobel set her hands on her hips in very much the way the redhead had done. ‘You didn’t tell me to avoid this place.’ Her eyes lowered. ‘Not in so many words.’

Taking her chin, he made her look at him. ‘That is true as far as it goes, but you could have been in no doubt that I did not wish you to return. You had no male escort to protect you! And as for you enquiring about the tourney—that is flagrant disobedience.’ He sighed. ‘Incidentally, did you learn anything?’

Green eyes clashed with his, those cherry-coloured lips were tightly closed. Lady Isobel of Turenne was damnably attractive when she was angry. Lucien felt a powerful and extremely inconvenient urge to kiss her.

Aware that Joris and Elaine were watching them with some interest, he released Isobel’s chin and once again offered her his arm. ‘Come, my lady, we cannot quarrel in the street.’

Glittering eyes held his before she reluctantly put her hand on his sleeve.

Disappointment churned in Lucien’s guts. In her own way, Isobel was showing every sign of becoming as inconvenient a wife as Morwenna had been. Where was the demure, obedient lady he had hoped for? He had come in search of her, wanting to bring her pleasure and somehow, they were quarrelling.

It is early days. I must not judge her too soon.

‘I had hoped for a peaceful marriage,’ he said. ‘Are my hopes misplaced?’

Her mouth twitched, her expression lightened.
Mon Dieu
, she only had to look as though laughter was a breath away, and Lucien found himself warming to her. Morwenna had rarely laughed. Had that been part of the trouble? Morwenna had taken everything so seriously...

‘Misplaced? I do hope not.’ She looked sideways at him. ‘You are not a tyrant, are you, my lord?’ She gave Joris a measuring look. ‘Are you Lord d’Aveyron’s squire?’

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘This is Joris of Caen,’ Lucien said, belatedly performing the introductions. ‘Joris, this is my betrothed, Lady Isobel de Turenne, and this is Elise of...?’ He looked at Elise.

‘Just Elise,’ the girl muttered.

Isobel was making Joris blush with the power of her smile. ‘Well, Joris? Is my lord a tyrant?’

‘No, my lady, of course not, Count Lucien is the most considerate—’

Lucien clapped his squire on the arm. ‘Enough, Joris. I’ll give you the penny I promised after.’

‘My lord?’

Isobel’s laughter rang round the square, and Lucien found himself smiling. Laughter was indeed a great blessing. As long as his betrothed learned to control her waywardness, there was hope for his second marriage.

‘Do you wish to return to the Abbey, my lady?’

‘Do we have to? We were going to...’ white teeth caught her lower lip ‘...going to find something to eat.’

‘Don’t the nuns feed you?’ Lucien waited for her response, she had been going to say something else, he was sure. However, having caught her in the Black Boar, he could not think that her other business would be anything that need concern him.

‘It is Friday, my lord.’ Thick eyelashes swept down, hiding her eyes. ‘And I have been having sinful thoughts all day.’

Her choice of words—innocent, he was sure—none the less had his gaze dropping to her mouth. To her breasts. Heat sparked through his veins. ‘Oh?’

‘I have a strong desire for red meat.’

‘I know just the place,’ Lucien heard himself say.

Chapter Six

M
ore people had poured into Troyes; the approach to the castle was jammed. Isobel realised they were fortunate to have horses with them. Horses proclaimed high status—particularly a black stallion like Lucien’s. As they progressed up the street, the townsfolk fell back to let them by.

Preparations were in hand for the Winter Fair, and the market area around St Rémi’s Church had sprung loudly into life. Jostling and noise came from all directions—hammers banged; cartwheels rumbled. A crate fell from a stall with a crash of splintered wood and several rounds of cheese rolled out. The sea of people swept past with the cheesemonger darting hither and yon, desperate to scoop up his wares before anyone else did. Hens squawked; feathers and straw floated on the wind.

Isobel wasn’t used to such frenetic activity. And the noise! Life in the convent was quiet and orderly. If it were not for Lucien and Joris marching on either side with the horses, she and Elise would be buffeted to bits.
I must get used to this. Real life outside a convent.
By the time they crossed the canal and entered the Jewish quarter, the crowd had thinned and Isobel could breathe—and think—again.

She shot Lucien a covert glance, her gaze flickering from his stern, unsmiling mouth to the way he held his charger’s reins, controlling him with the lightest of touches. She had been pleasantly surprised by his forbearance in the Black Boar. He had accused her of disobedience, but thankfully he had not berated her in public. Was the storm yet to break?

It was obvious Lucien valued self-control. He might be disappointed in her, but a man like Lucien, a champion who had won accolade after accolade, would not stoop to brawling with his betrothed in the street. If chastisement was to come her way, it would likely come later, when they were in private. She had angered him.

A crumbling Roman wall appeared ahead, farriers and armourers were set up in its shadow. Furnaces glowed like dragons’ eyes. The air rang with the clang of hammer on steel, and the tang of singed hoofs hung in the air.

Lucien led them around the castle walls to where a pie stand was set up beneath a walnut tree. As the rich and tempting smell of beef reached her, Isobel’s mouth filled with saliva. He had brought them to a pie stand?

‘You wish to eat, my lady?’ Lucien’s stern mouth eased as he handed his reins to Joris.

Isobel’s heart lifted. Lucien knew that he had surprised her, and she would swear he was trying not to smile. ‘I would love to. I’m starving.’

This last was not strictly true. The sisters knew better than to starve the daughters and wives of their benefactors, but one effect of the restricted convent diet was that it had instilled in Isobel a hearty respect for red meat. Even on a Friday, when meat was forbidden.

‘Four pies, if you please,’ Lucien said, handing over the money.

They sat on a bench beneath the walnut tree, Lucien on Isobel’s right hand, Elise on her left. The pies were hot. Isobel’s tasted better than anything she had eaten in years.

‘Good, eh?’ Lucien said. ‘Bartholomew bakes the best beef pies in Champagne.’

‘Heaven,’ Isobel murmured, surreptitiously wiping crumbs from her mouth.

A couple of leaves fluttered down from the tree. Through a gap in the wall, Isobel saw a mill wheel. While she finished her pie, she watched it turning.

‘Thank you, my lord, I was hungry.’ She brushed off her hands, faintly embarrassed at the speed with which she had wolfed the pie. A priest was walking by, heading for the castle drawbridge. When he nodded at them, she grimaced. ‘I hope he didn’t see what we were eating, I don’t want the sisters to find out about the beef.’

Lucien gave her a sharp look. ‘They don’t use the birch on you?’

‘No. But there are...penances for various transgressions.’

He leaned back, studying her. ‘Penances?’

‘Minor transgressions require the repetition of certain psalms in church; it is similar to when one makes one’s confession. Larger transgressions require more...stringent penances.’

‘Such as?’

Elise shifted, she was staring at a leaf on the ground. ‘Embroidering the altar cloth. Lady Isobel mislikes that most particularly,’ she said quietly, not lifting her gaze from the leaf. ‘Though it’s not so bad at the Abbey.’

The way Elise kept her gaze on the leaf...it was as though she found it hard to look at Lucien.
Elise is shy, painfully shy.

Rising, Lucien offered Isobel his hand. ‘Rest assured, the nuns will hear no mention of meat pies from me,’ he said. ‘In any case, the sin is surely mine. If they find out, you can say I bought them, and for courtesy’s sake you were forced to eat them.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’

Lucien’s fingers closed warmly over hers. When he had kissed her at the inn, Isobel had been unprepared for it, but she had liked it. She liked the contact now. Lucien’s fingers were strong and capable, his nails were clean and cut straight across. There was nothing particularly remarkable about them, nothing to hint at how much she would enjoy their touch. He ran his thumb across her knuckles, and an echo of the shivery sensation she had felt in the inn feathered through her.

‘I shall return you to the Abbey,’ he said, tucking her arm into his and giving her one of his rare smiles. ‘I was coming to see you when I saw you heading for the tavern. I wanted you to know that chambers will shortly be available at Count Henry’s palace.’

Isobel’s heart gave a nervous lurch. ‘When will they be ready?’

‘Tomorrow afternoon.’

Heart thudding, Isobel looked into his blue eyes.
So...it begins. From tomorrow, I will be entirely in your hands...

Her blood thrummed in her veins—she felt excited, she felt afraid. A husband had so much power over a wife. Isobel had waited many years to come to this crossroad, and she had always imagined that her father and mother would be standing with her. With her mother’s death and her father’s illness, that was no longer possible.

She knew remarkably little about Lucien the man. At times he seemed quite approachable—the kiss at the inn, the buying of the meat pies. At other times, he was stern and distant. She simply could not fathom him.
The great tourney champion. He is an enigma.

He had followed her to the inn and waited for her to engage the potboy in conversation
before
he had announced his presence. Why? It was as though he expected her to condemn herself in his eyes; it was as though he was waiting for her to prove herself unworthy in some way.

‘I shall prepare to move to the palace tomorrow then.’

His head dipped, and it struck her that he was watching for her reaction. ‘If that is convenient.’

He expects me to be pleased.
Thrusting her doubts behind her, Isobel put brightness into her voice. ‘Thank you, my lord, that will be...a relief.’

* * *

The Abbess was waiting at the convent gate.

‘There you are,’ she said, grasping Isobel by the wrist. Then she noticed Lucien, and released her as quickly as she had grasped her. ‘Count Lucien!’

‘Good day, Reverend Mother.’ Lucien interposed himself between Isobel and the Abbess. ‘Did my lady not inform you of our meeting to discuss our forthcoming marriage?’

Abbess Ursula gripped the cross at her breast and looked coolly at them. ‘Lady Isobel said nothing of any meeting, my lord.’

‘My apologies, Reverend Mother, I am sure you will forgive her. We had much to decide upon.’ He looked down his nose at her. ‘And now we are come to inform you of our plans. Lady Isobel will be taking her leave of you tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘Count Henry’s steward has found chambers for her in the palace, they will be ready tomorrow. I see no reason why she should not move in then.’

The Abbess made a choking sound. ‘My lord, I am afraid that will not be possible, Lady Isobel’s maid has not recovered. I do not advise that an unmarried lady moves into the palace without her companion.’

Isobel felt Lucien stiffen.

‘Reverend Mother,’ he spoke softly, but there was iron in his voice. ‘You are surely not suggesting that Lady Isobel will be at risk while she is under the protection of Count Henry?’

‘Lady Isobel will need a maid.’

Isobel felt a tug on her skirt.

‘Please,’ Elise whispered, eyes fixed on Isobel. ‘Take me.’

‘I should like that,’ Isobel said, looking at Lucien.

‘Good idea,’ he said. ‘Elise shall accompany my lady to the palace.’

Abbess Ursula sniffed. ‘My lord, I had hoped to have charge of Lady Isobel a while longer. There are certain...aspects of her character that require more...training. You are bound to have noticed them. I strongly recommend Lady Isobel remains at the Abbey until your wedding. That way we can improve her—’

‘Improve her, Reverend Mother?’ Lucien murmured, placing his hand on Isobel’s. His thumb moved back and forth over her skin, in that subtle caress that unsettled as much as it reassured. ‘What can you mean?’

‘Lady Isobel is rather...wayward, my lord.’ The Abbess paused. ‘And we don’t want history to repeat itself, do we?’

* * *

Lucien went still, but his mind raced. Abbess Ursula’s effrontery—on two counts—briefly robbed him of speech. Isobel was unquestionably wayward. The sight of his betrothed standing up to that redhead in the Black Boar would live long in his mind. He was startled to feel his mood lift as he remembered. It was true that Lucien had hoped that his second wife would be quietly, sweetly biddable. Isobel was neither quiet nor biddable, but he was sure, with the right training...

‘It is not for you to criticise my betrothed. Her time here is over.’ It came to him that convent training would never work on someone like Isobel. She was as unsuited to life in a nunnery as he would be. Perhaps her early arrival in Troyes had as much to do with Isobel as it did with her stepmother—she was desperate to escape the convent.

As for Abbess Ursula’s reference to Morwenna—how dare she! Isobel was bound to find out about Morwenna at some point, but Lucien had no intention of that happening until after their wedding. After he had honoured his promise to his father.
After we have had time to get to know one another.

That last thought caught him unawares. Ruthlessly, he dismissed it.
We shall marry, and Isobel will choose one of my castles to live in. And then, apart from the children she will bear me, life will go on very much as it did before.

In the aftermath of the first attack on Morwenna, Lucien had been forced to tell Abbess Ursula that Morwenna was his wife. Only the Abbess and a handful of his knights knew of his first marriage. Lucien had revealed his secret to the Abbess purely for Morwenna’s sake. He had wanted to protect her, and he had known that the Abbess would be more inclined to squash rumours of witchcraft if she knew Morwenna was Lucien’s wife.

Notwithstanding, Lucien had had many a sleepless night over the Abbess learning that he was married. If word had got out—the scandal would have rocked Christendom. A noble of Lucien’s status was expected to marry
well
. Morwenna was not noble. She had been a minstrel’s daughter and her illegitimate birth was against her. If Isobel’s father, Viscount Gautier, had found out about the marriage, he would have accused Lucien—quite rightly—of breaching the terms of his betrothal contract. Not only would Isobel be lost to Lucien, but with her would have gone any hope of him having a real marriage.

I kept marriage to Morwenna quiet in the hope that Morwenna would become strong enough to survive an annulment.

That day had never dawned. Morwenna’s mind had become increasingly clouded and he hadn’t had the heart to divorce her. He had lost himself in tourneying; flinging himself into the life of an itinerant knight; hoping against hope that one day Arthur would send a message informing him that Morwenna had recovered. The message had never come, and Lucien hadn’t been able to bring himself to seek an annulment from a woman who was unable to fend for herself.

Several years had gone by with Lucien braced for the day when the Abbess would reveal his secret to the world. Rather to his surprise, that day had never dawned. The Abbess had kept her word; she had kept his shameful secret. As far as Lucien could tell, she had never breathed a word about his marriage.

Until now...

If Isobel learned about Morwenna too soon, her view of him would be coloured by that one terrible mistake from his past. A woman of her status would see his marriage to Morwenna as an insult. Isobel would have grounds to reject him, and the world would learn his shameful secret. His dishonour. And those years of striving to regain his honour on the tourney field would be as dust in the wind. It was too soon for Isobel to learn about Morwenna.

‘Lady Isobel is my responsibility now,’ he said, firmly. ‘And I thank you for your care of her.’

Abbess Ursula inclined her head. ‘Very well, my lord. May I wish you both well in your marriage?’

‘Thank you, Reverend Mother.’

When the Abbess had gone, Isobel touched Lucien’s arm. ‘My lord, what did Reverend Mother mean about history repeating itself?’

His jaw tightened. ‘It’s not important. Forget it. You will soon be out of here.’

‘For that I am grateful.’

Lucien lifted her hand from his arm and kissed her fingers. ‘I shall bring porters and an escort at noon tomorrow. Until then, I bid you farewell.’

* * *

Count Henry’s palace was but a short step away along the Rue Moyenne and across the bridge, so there would be no need for horses. As Lady Isobel of Turenne’s betrothed came to escort her and she bade farewell to the nuns, the last notes of the noon bell rang out from St Peter’s Cathedral.

It had rained earlier, and the cobbles gleamed with wet. It was cold, goose-bumps ran down her neck. Winter was fast approaching, but nothing could depress her spirits. Pulling up her hood, Isobel walked out of the Abbey and placed her hand on Lucien’s arm.

At last, she was to have a taste of what life as the Countess d’Aveyron might be like. There would be no more penitential sewing for her, no more hours on her knees poring over her psalter. The man at her side would shortly be her husband.