White Lion's Lady (3 page)

Streamers of smoke from the burning candles and oil lamps carried at the front of the cortege trailed on the breeze, floating over the sober, bowed heads of the attending nuns and clergy and the dead man’s bier, which was draped in black silk and borne on wooden slats suspended between two poles. The nobleman’s family followed directly behind, two proud sons holding onto their wailing mother’s arms, helping her remain upright when grief seemed determined to collapse her in the street.

From within her own conveyance, a well-appointed litter flanked by half a dozen armed escorts now halted at the side of the road, Isabel de Lamere parted the silk curtains that canopied her from the sun’s glare and watched in sympathy as the sorrowful parade passed.

Behind the widow and her sons walked a little girl. Garbed in black, her cheeks tearstained and red, the child clutched a small bouquet of flowers in her fist. Her quivering jaw and trembling hands brought a flood of sadness to Isabel’s eyes, for in a way, she knew that little girl. Indeed, she had once been her, deprived of a father at an early age
and all but forgotten by a mother who could not shoulder the loss of her husband.

Isabel offered the child a gentle smile as she passed the silk-veiled litter, communicating her sympathy in a warm glance and a hopeful, silent prayer that, in time, the hurt would heal and everything would be all right. The little girl seemed to cling to Isabel’s gaze, blinking through her tears and finally returning a wobbly half smile as she continued on up the road toward the churchyard. Isabel watched the child’s retreating back until the trailing crowd of mourners swallowed her up.

“What an irritating inconvenience,” groused Isabel’s traveling companion, a maiden of similar age who was also on her way from London to be wed to a nobleman of the king’s choosing.

Cloistered at the abbey of St. Winifred for nearly as long as Isabel had been there, at eight-and-ten Lady Felice had suffered the dissolution of two previous betrothals and was clearly impatient to see her present arrangement through to fruition. She seemed to be of the mind that if she did not make it to her betrothed’s estate with all due haste, the man would suddenly have a change of heart and beg release from his obligation.

Isabel wondered if he might be more inclined to do so once he finally met his bride-to-be. While the petite blond was fair enough of face and respectably dowered, at her best Lady Felice was a charming conniver; at her worst she possessed the disposition of a shrew. Isabel would be only too glad to see the end of their journey and bid farewell to the spoiled, complaining young woman.

“For pity’s sake! How long must we delay here?” Felice huffed, leaning forward to peer around Isabel at the crowded street. “Who is dead?” she demanded of a passerby. “I do hope it was someone of import to warrant all of this bother.”

“Hush, Felice!” Isabel chided, appalled by the girl’s insensitivity.
“A father and husband has died. He was of import to his family; show them some respect.”

Felice rolled her eyes. She sat back against her cushioned seat with a petulant pout. “You’re a fine one to talk about respect,” she snipped acidly. “Or do you forget your own father died a branded traitor to the Crown?”

Isabel kept her face turned away so Felice would not see her pained wince. No, she had not forgotten the sad fact of her father’s dishonor. Far from it. His shame haunted her every day of her life, ever since the morning, six years ago, when he was hauled away from Lamere Castle in chains, convicted of a years-old treason against the previous king of England, Henry II.

Isabel’s beloved father, along with a score of other barons, had been found guilty of participation in a rebellion against the king and executed. He had not even tried to deny the wrongdoing, claiming with his last breath that he did only what he felt was best for his country at the time, and that given the chance, he would do so again.

As a result of his betrayal, everything he owned was deemed forfeit to the Crown: his lands and titles, his wealth, even his marriage to Isabel’s mother, which was annulled, illegitimizing Isabel and her infant sister. She and little Maura were declared bastards and sent to live in separate convents as wards of the king. Their mother, a distant relative of the royal family, was allowed to retain the rights to her dower lands, but was returned to her homeland of France in supreme disgrace. Six years had passed without a word from her, but rumors circulated that the noble lady had gone quite mad with grief and humiliation. Then, less than a month ago, a missive arrived conveying the regretful news that Isabel’s mother had succumbed to an illness.

Isabel was now inherited of the château in France and several other estates that bordered the northern kingdom of Wales. She was a landed heiress and, King Richard decided, prime for marriage. He had matched her with the
Earl of Montborne, a man Isabel had never met and knew only by reports of his sterling reputation.

It had been some years since she had trusted in the honor of men—trusting her father’s honor had taught her that bitter lesson—but Isabel hoped she would be able to convince her new husband to allow her to send for Maura once they were wed. If she could do nothing else in this life, she prayed for the chance to be reunited with her sister and the opportunity to look after her until she was old enough to start her own life.

“I vow I cannot credit why the king saw fit to betroth you, of all people, to Sebastian of Montborne,” Felice continued once the funeral procession had gone ahead and the horses were guided back onto the road to resume the trek north out of London.

The lurching of the litter as it moved forward upset the beads in Felice’s elaborate hairstyle, a plaited and coiled crown of flaxen locks veiled in pink silk and held in place with a circlet of twisted gold. She reached up to make certain nothing was amiss on her head, then brushed irritably at the wrinkles in her traveling gown, a stunning kirtle the color of a maiden’s blush that fit her slender form to perfection. The fashionable garment, with its long, pointed sleeves draping nearly to the bottom of her skirts and its intricately beaded bodice, easily outshone the pretty, pale green gown and veil Isabel wore for the journey. Indeed, not even the fine dress Isabel had packed for her wedding could rival Felice’s rich attire.

“Imagine,” the young woman continued, shaking her head, “a traitor’s bastard wedding one of the king’s most favored vassals while I, grand-niece to the royal chancellor, am relegated to becoming the wife of a mere baron. It hardly seems fair.”

Isabel bit back the urge to remind Felice that until he was appointed chancellor by King Richard, her uncle William de Longchamp was a veritable unknown in noble
circles, a commoner. To those left with no choice but to abide him in his present role for the crown, Longchamp was now considered no better than a commissioned thief, liar, and cheat. Isabel had the distinct impression that the Longchamp fruit did not fall far from the tree.

“Don’t despair of your situation too soon,” she advised Felice with a reassuring pat of her hand. “After all, you’re not yet wed. Perhaps this betrothal will fall through just as the other two have.”

Felice sighed heavily and gave a little nod before she registered the subtle barb in Isabel’s comment. Her belatedly insulted gaze snapped up to Isabel, who had since returned her attention to the passing countryside.

The forest grew thick not far out of the city and continued to hug the sides of the road for some long hours into the journey. Chin propped in her hand to hold her head upright, Felice dozed while Isabel remained awake and far too pensive for sleep. She watched as fellow travelers and pilgrims passed on the narrow road, headed, as she was, to points north. She listened to the songs some of them sang to pass the time, wondering at the people’s various futures and destinations almost as curiously as she wondered at her own.

With her past falling away by leagues, what lay ahead of her?

Isabel tried to picture Montborne, a place she had never been but had heard of often, the place that was soon to be her home. She closed her eyes and easily imagined its vast rolling meadows and fertile fields, the thriving villages and glorious stone castle that presided over it all. She pictured the joy on her little sister’s face when Maura would arrive at Montborne, delivered from life at the convent and brought to live with Isabel and her husband as a family.

As she had tried numerous times since first hearing of her betrothal, Isabel tried to picture Sebastian, the Earl of Montborne, her fiancé. She tried to envision herself meeting
him, marrying him … and here is where she failed. For although she had heard many accounts of the youthful earl’s dark good looks, somehow, whenever Isabel tried to imagine the man who would be her husband, her mind conjured the image of a brave, handsome knight with tawny hair and flashing green-gold eyes.

She pictured Griffin of Droghallow.

In truth, she had never forgotten about her childhood hero, the boy who had rescued her from certain doom a decade past and left her with a token of his courage and honor—the white lion medallion that Isabel carried with her every moment of every day. She had drawn on it for strength the day her father was arrested, and she had relied on its power to see her through each painful night that she spent at the abbey, frightened and alone, separated from her family and all she loved.

With a glance at Felice to make certain the woman still slept, Isabel withdrew the medallion from within the bodice of her gown and held it into the light coming through the litter’s curtains. Lovingly, she smoothed the pad of her thumb over the enameled metal, knowing the careful embossment by heart: fashioned out of a disc of bronze that had been cut in half vertically, the medallion contained the heraldic representation of a fierce white lion rampant, a majestic creature of great courage that Isabel had always likened to Griffin of Droghallow himself.

Not a day passed when Isabel did not think about Griffin, wondering what had become of him and if she might ever see him again. She included him in her prayers without fail, asking God to keep him safe and happy. Isabel dreamed more frequently than was seemly that she would see Griffin again, that somehow their paths would cross and she could return his medallion and thank him personally for all he had given her with his kindness those ten years ago. She had dreamed of other encounters with him
as well, encounters vivid enough to bring a blush to her cheeks just to think on them in the bald light of day.

Isabel shook her head as if to sweep her sinful thoughts away, the same way she must learn to sweep aside her girlish fascination with a man who was little more than pleasant memory to her now.

She was to wed Sebastian of Montborne. She would honor that vow in all ways starting this very moment, she decided as she put away the medallion and shifted in her seat, closing her eyes and settling back against the cushions with a sigh.

She must have nodded off for a while, for she woke with a start when she heard one of her escorts shout an impatient hail to someone ahead on the road.

Felice roused at the sudden bark of command as well. “What is it? Are we finally arrived?” she asked through a groggy yawn.

“We have stopped for some reason,” Isabel answered, peeking out of the curtains.

It was nearly dusk outside, though the encroaching forest made their surroundings seem darker than twilight. The road this far north would be more accurately described as a path, the narrow, ambling trod now deserted save for the ladies and their convoy of attending guards. And a shepherd with his flock, Isabel noted upon closer look. The old man stood about a furlong up the road, directly in the way of the traveling party, his sheep seeming to be hemmed in from the front and back, unwilling or unable to vacate the road.

“Get those beasts out of the road, graybeard, and let us pass,” one of the armed escorts ordered.

The shepherd merely stared, wide-eyed, unspeaking and uncooperative. Isabel wondered if he was deaf, for she could plainly hear the impatience in the knight’s voice. She could also hear the jingle of arms and gear; she could
sense the nervous anticipation of the horses as their riders waited in wary silence.

Something felt queer about this delay. Something was frightfully wrong here. Isabel tried to lean farther out to get a better look at the situation up ahead.

“Back inside now, my lady,” one of the guards advised in a low, even voice. “There is no cause for concern.”

But there was. Isabel knew it by the schooled calmness in the man’s tone. She swallowed hard and sat back as she was told, praying she was only letting her imagination get the best of her. “ ’Tis nothing, I’m sure,” she told Felice, who was scowling across from her. “A shepherd and his flock have blocked the road. We’ll be off as soon as they’ve gone.”

“I will tell you only once more,” the leader of the guards said to the shepherd. “Clear the road and let us pass.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Felice grumbled, loud enough for all to hear. “Trample the imbecile if he won’t make way!”

The toe of Isabel’s slipper connected sharply with Felice’s shin, silencing the woman at the very moment that the true cause of their delay became horrifyingly clear to all. From out of the surrounding trees, an arrow flew. It hit its mark with lethal accuracy, claiming one of the guards and plunging the rest of the traveling party into chaos.

Isabel and Felice could only listen in terror as an ambush ensued outside over the bleating of frightened sheep and the surprised shouts of the guards. There was the whoosh of more arrows, the pained cries of the men and horses, and soon thereafter, the metallic clash of blades. The horses carrying the litter shifted nervously amid the skirmish, making the veiled conveyance sway and lurch frightfully.

“We’re being attacked!” Felice wailed, bursting into tears. “Dear God, we’re going to die!”

Isabel wanted to calm the woman, but there was nothing she could say. Fear robbed her of her own voice. She
braced her outflung hands against the framework sides of the shifting litter, struggling to keep a grip on her surroundings, as well as her sense of reason. She did not have to see the battle taking place outside to know that unless they took action, all too soon she and Felice would find themselves thrust into the fray.