Carol Townend

by Lady Isobel's Champion

  You fool, have the long years taught you nothing? You mean nothing to him.

  ‘Reverend Mother, are weddings actually forbidden on Winter’s Eve?’ he asked.

  Abbess Ursula shook her head. ‘No, my lord, but—’

  ‘Then Winter’s Eve it is.’

  The Abbess gave a curt nod. ‘As you wish, my lord.’

  Blue eyes held Isobel’s. ‘My lady, you realise our marriage will take place before word reaches your father? Viscount Gautier will not be witnessing our wedding.’

  ‘I am reconciled to that,’ Isobel said. ‘I realised some while ago that my father would not be attending the ceremony.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He no longer enjoys full health.’

  Count Lucien’s expression was sympathetic. ‘I was saddened to hear of your mother’s death in the summer, I didn’t know Viscount Gautier was also in poor health.’

  Isobel nodded, and jerked her gaze away. Grief welled up and the narrow window behind Count Lucien was lost in a mist of tears. Her wounds were too raw for her to speak about her poor mother. ‘Father has remarried. I am sure he will have mentioned this in your exchange of letters.’

  ‘Yes, so I recall.’

  In her heart, Isobel felt her father had betrayed her mother by remarrying so soon. The words caught in her throat.

  It irked her that after prevaricating for so long, Count Lucien had merely to snap his fingers and she must come running. Her new stepmother, Lady Angelina, must have been thrilled when his summons had arrived, for she had wasted no time in packing Isobel off. Isobel could have remained at St Foye’s, but the convent was clearly too close to Turenne for Lady Angelina’s comfort. Notwithstanding this, Isobel would have felt she was betraying her father if she complained at being so easily dismissed.

  If only her father had ridden to St Foye’s to bid her farewell. Conques was not far from Turenne. Isobel understood that his illness had probably prevented it, but she would have liked a private message of Godspeed. Instead, her father had simply forwarded Lucien’s summons to Mother Edina. And Mother Edina had duly relayed it to Isobel along with the news that her escort awaited outside the convent gates, and would she please pack up her belongings without delay.

  She cleared her throat. ‘My lord, despite his marriage, Father is not in good health. He will remain in Turenne.’

  ‘I hope he recovers swiftly,’ the Count said.

  He looked so sombre, Isobel had a depressing thought. If her father and Angelina had a son, and despite her father’s ill health that was possible, then Isobel would no longer be an heiress. Was Count Lucien regretting arranging a marriage with a woman who might never come into an inheritance?

  I want Count Lucien to want me! I don’t want him to reject me because he considers me a poor prospect.

  How lowering to feel this way.

  ‘Count Lucien, a word if you please?’ The Abbess gestured him to one side. They went to stand under the window and although Abbess Ursula’s tone became confidential, she had a carrying voice. ‘I cannot help but notice that Lady Isobel is in need of...discipline. I fear her father gave her too much licence at Turenne.’

  The Count drew his head back. ‘Lady Isobel has spent much of her time in St Foye’s Convent—I would venture that the good nuns there, rather than Viscount Gautier, are responsible for her upbringing. She will not prevail on your hospitality for long. I am making arrangements for her to lodge at Count Henry’s palace.’

  ‘Lady Isobel’s maid is sick, my lord. Lady Isobel will have to remain here until the girl has recovered.’

  Before she knew it, Isobel had stepped forwards. ‘I am perfectly capable of packing my belongings myself, Reverend Mother.’

  ‘And I should be pleased to help,’ Elise said, from her place in the shadows.

  The Abbess lifted an eyebrow. ‘Very well. I suppose I should expect nothing less.’

  ‘What can you mean?’

  ‘Lady Isobel, from the moment you have arrived, you have shown little sense of propriety.’ She huffed out a breath and frowned at the Count. ‘Your betrothed needs a firm bridle, my lord. This morning she left the convent without permission. It grieves me to confess that she has been wandering about the county like a pedlar’s daughter.’

  Lucien watched a flush run into Isobel’s cheeks. She was staring stolidly at a cross on the wall. She came to find me. She might have arrived in Troyes a month before she was expected, but Abbess Ursula was not going to be permitted to bully her. ‘Lady Isobel rode to Ravenshold,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately, I had given my men orders to admit no one and she was turned away.’

  ‘Be that as it may, Lady Isobel should not have left the Abbey without my leave.’

  Isobel stepped forwards. ‘I took an escort.’ Large green eyes turned towards him. ‘My father’s men-at-arms escorted me from Turenne. They did not leave my side for a moment.’

  Abbess Ursula made a clucking sound with her tongue. ‘Lady Isobel should not have gone without my permission. Such disobedience. Such wilfulness. I am sorry to have to tell you, Lord d’Aveyron, but you will find Lady Isobel needs a very firm bridle.’

  ‘I am certain you exaggerate.’ Thus far, Lucien was surprisingly pleased with the way his betrothed had turned out. So much so, that he was beginning to think that his luck might have turned. It seemed that way.

  Isobel was pretty, nay, pretty was too pallid a word for Isobel’s golden beauty. She was beautiful. And she had a demure look to her—that neat figure, that simple gown—that gave the lie to the warnings the Abbess was giving about her character. Isobel looked to be precisely the sort of good, biddable wife he wanted. A lady. Someone who—unlike Morwenna—had been bred to duty and obedience. Isobel of Turenne would give him children and she would look after them. And Lucien would be free to manage his life and his estates as he always did. Just look at her. The golden hair concealed by that veil was, he suspected, more soft and fair than that of Queen Guinevere. Were those cherry-coloured lips as sweet as they looked?

  ‘I do not exaggerate, my lord, I assure you,’ the Abbess said. ‘At any rate, you will be pleased to hear I have put a stop to such behaviour. I have dismissed her escort.’

  Lucien felt himself go still. Isobel was no longer a child, and she would shortly be his bride. It was one thing for the Abbess to chastise Lady Isobel whilst she was in her charge, but that she should take it upon herself to dismiss Viscount Gautier’s escort was unthinkable. ‘You did what?’

  ‘I sent them to Troyes Castle.’

  ‘You did not have that right, Reverend Mother,’ Lucien said, softly. ‘Viscount Gautier sent that escort for Lady Isobel’s protection.’

  ‘My Abbey is a house of God, not a barracks!’

  ‘None the less, you should not have dismissed Lady Isobel’s escort. I am confident that if Viscount Gautier trusts his men to accompany his daughter from Turenne, they are more than competent to protect her whilst she explores Champagne.’

  Abbess Ursula looked sourly at his betrothed. ‘Have it as you will, my lord. Since Lady Isobel promises to be rather too lively a guest for my Abbey, I am happy to wash my hands of her. It would not do for her to disrupt my other ladies.’ Her breast heaved and she swept to the door. ‘Count Lucien, never say I did not warn you how wilful she is. I wish you joy. Come along, Sister, I want to discuss your idea for the sisters’ stall at the Winter Fair.’

  Lucien watched her go. ‘What a dragon,’ he murmured.

  * * *

  Isobel could not be sure she had heard him correctly. ‘My lord?’

  ‘We shall be married in little over a week. I would be honoured if you would call me Lucien. And I should like to call you Isobel, if that is acceptable?’

  ‘I...yes, of course,’ Isobel said, bemused to be granted this privilege after years of being forgotten. Many wives were never given permission to dispense with the formalities. He ignores me for years, and suddenly I am free to call him Lucien? It made no sense.

 
He turned to Elise who seemed struck with shyness and would not look at him. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘A friend. My lo—Lucien, this is Elise...Elise, this is my betrothed, Count Lucien d’Aveyron.’

  Head rigidly down, Elise made her curtsy. ‘Good day, mon seigneur.’

  ‘Good day, Elise.’ The Count—Lucien—glanced through the door and back at Isobel. ‘Is your maid very sick?’

  ‘I don’t think it is serious, but she’s been put in the infirmary.’

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘I am not sure. I suspect she ate something that disagreed with her. She has been most violently ill.’

  ‘Can she be moved? If not, I will send someone back to fetch her when she is recovered.’

  Isobel’s heart lifted. ‘I’m leaving before our wedding?’

  ‘If you are in agreement, I see no reason why you should not leave today. But Ravenshold is...unprepared for your arrival. I have asked Count Henry if you may stay at his palace here in town. I am waiting to hear if there is space for you.’

  Isobel felt a flutter of excitement and found herself smiling. She had not wanted to show pleasure that Lucien had at last come to greet her. She had meant to be cool, but he had caught her unawares with his offer to remove her from the Abbey that day.

  Today! All my life I have been shifted from convent to convent and now...

  Freedom!

  I must be calm. I must not let him see how I have longed for this day. Yet I must not alienate him either. I shall have to do my best to please him.

  Abruptly, her mood darkened. She could not forget that her mother had died in childbirth. Unless I want Mother’s fate to be mine, how can I welcome him into my bed?

  Crowding into her mind came another memory, that of her friend Lady Anna. Scarcely a month after a smiling and happy Anna had left St Foye’s Convent for her wedding, she had come racing back. Anna had been pale. She had lost weight. She had taken Isobel aside and started muttering darkly about the horrors—yes, horrors had been the word she had used—of the wedding bed. Anna had only just started when there had been a fearful clamour at the convent gates. Anna’s irate bridegroom had come to claim her.

  A blink of an eye later, Anna had left St Foye’s a second time. Isobel never heard from her again. A year later, she learned that Anna had died in childbed. Exactly as her mother had done.

  I may never be able to give him an heir. Mother tried again and again to give Father a boy. She died trying. Am I to die in like manner?

  ‘I shall send word to Count Henry’s steward, and see how swiftly arrangements may be made for you.’ Lucien sent Elise a charming smile. ‘If your friend agrees to accompany you, the proprieties may still be observed. Even the Abbess could not cavil at the arrangements. Well, my lady, what do you say?’

  Isobel had opened her mouth to reply, when a novice hurtled into the lodge.

  ‘Where’s the Abbess?’ the novice gasped. Her face was the image of distress.

  ‘Talking to one of the sisters,’ Lucien said. ‘Why?’

  ‘The relic!’ The novice was shaking from head to toe. ‘My lady, the relic’s been stolen!’

  Isobel froze. ‘I beg your pardon?’ When she had come from the convent in Conques, she had brought a relic with her—a scrap of cloth reputed to have come from St Foye’s gown. The relic was highly treasured by the nuns in the south, and it was a great honour to have been entrusted with transporting it.

  ‘The altar’s been smashed in the Lady Chapel and...’ the novice bobbed a curtsy ‘...excuse me, my lady, I must find the Abbess.’ She vanished as quickly as she had appeared.

  Lucien looked questioningly at Isobel. ‘Relic?’

  ‘A fragment of cloth that belonged to St Foye.’

  ‘You brought it with you?’

  Isobel nodded. ‘The relic is lent to this Abbey until the end of the Winter Fair. Since Father gave me an escort and I wanted to return the nuns’ hospitality, I offered to bring it. It brings pilgrims—’

  ‘And revenues,’ Lucien put in, drily.

  ‘I suppose it does bring money, but...’ Isobel looked earnestly at him. ‘Excuse me, my lord, I feel some responsibility for that relic.’ Without another word, she picked up her skirts and hurried out of the lodge.

  * * *

  Lucien followed, somewhat bemused at the interest his betrothed was showing in the theft of a fragment of material that might or might not have belonged to some long-dead saint. She had largely been brought up by nuns, that must explain it. He followed her into a paved yard and past a series of columns—the cloisters that adjoined the Abbey Church. She moved with grace, giving him a chance to see that her figure was most pleasing. As the sunlight lifted the edge of her veil, he glimpsed a thick plait, burnished to gold by the afternoon sun.

  The little novice had run off into the cloisters, in search of the Abbess. Lucien followed Isobel into the cool shade of the church where a wooden screen separated a series of side-chapels from the main nave. Eyes round with shock, she had paused at the entrance to one of the chapels, and was absently resting her hand on a carved angel. Her hand was delicate, fine-boned and ladylike. Lucien had never before thought of a hand as being pretty, but Isobel’s was.

  Several people must have been at their devotions in the Abbey Church when the thief had struck. A number of townsfolk and a handful of sisters were standing with their noses pressed against the carved screen, watching what was going on in the chapel.

  Reaching Isobel as she stood in the chapel entrance, Lucien was startled by an impulse to cover that pretty hand with his. He was in God’s house, and the nuns would definitely disapprove. Experimentally, he placed his fingers on the back of her hand.

  Instantly, Isobel was tense, taut as a bow. Her green eyes flickered, and slowly—it was the subtlest of movements—she shifted her hand so that it lay alongside his on the wooden screen. Almost touching, but not quite. As a rebuttal it was subtle, but it gave him a jolt. It made him realise that Isobel of Turenne might not find it easy to forgive him for their much-delayed marriage. Wooing this woman might not be easy. She is hiding much anger.

  Dark-robed nuns stood like statues around the edge of the side chapel, stunned by the sacrilege. Peering past them, Lucien saw a brightly painted slice of sandstone with several trefoils cut into it. The altar frontal. Someone had hacked away the border between two trefoils, leaving a ragged black hole. On the tiled floor lay a rope, a crowbar, and a number of sandstone shards.

  Skirts sweeping though the shards, Isobel crossed to the altar and the nuns parted to let her through. She bent and took a closer look. The relic must have been housed in the darkness behind the altar.

  Isobel straightened, turning to look at him. ‘The reliquary is gone,’ she said. Her gaze went past him, focusing on one of the bystanders. She stiffened. ‘My lord, look!’

  A hooded man in a shabby brown tunic was struggling to lace up a pouch. Incredibly, Lucien caught the rich gleam of gold and the sharp shine of blue enamel. A Limoges reliquary box. A box that in itself would almost be as priceless as the relic within it. The man sidled to the church door and nipped through it.

  ‘Did you see?’ Isobel breathed, brushing past him.

  Lucien nodded. ‘Limoges reliquary.’

  ‘The nerve of the man, pretending to be a pilgrim.’ Isobel was already halfway across the nave. ‘I have to catch him.’

  Striding after her, Lucien frowned. He caught her hand. ‘You? It is not your place to catch thieves.’ When her green eyes flashed, he tightened his grip. ‘Isobel—’

  Wrenching her hand free, Isobel dived into the sunlight.

  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.