Carol Townend

by Lady Isobel's Champion

  Isobel nodded. ‘When he has finished talking to his acquaintance, I shall introduce you. Tell me, Captain, are your billets acceptable?’

  ‘Thank you, yes.’

  ‘And the others—are they well? I was particularly concerned for Pierre.’

  ‘We are in good spirits, my lady. If I may be so bold...’ Captain Simund hesitated ‘...the men are happier here than they would be at the Abbey. We don’t have to tiptoe around. We don’t—begging your pardon, my lady—have to watch our tongues every moment of every day.’

  ‘Captain, I am glad to hear it,’ Isobel said, warmly. ‘I feared Pierre might miss Turenne.’

  ‘Not a bit of it, my lady.’

  After Isobel had introduced Captain Simund to her betrothed, she and Lucien left the garrison.

  ‘I shall show you more of Troyes, you will feel at ease if you know your way about,’ Lucien said.

  ‘Thank you, my lord, so I will.’

  * * *

  Thus it was that a word from her betrothed to a guard on the city walls gained admittance to the boardwalk ringing the town. On one hand, out across the dry moat, the County of Champagne stretched away to the horizon. On the other lay the town—it was like looking down at a vast parchment map of Troyes. Inky smoke trails wafted heavenwards through a dozen tiled roofs. If the streets had once followed a plan, they no longer did so. Wooden houses were crammed in higgledy-piggledy, no two were the same.

  ‘The roof tiles are a safeguard against fire,’ Lucien told her.

  ‘What about that one?’ Isobel asked, seeing thatch among the tiles.

  Lucien shrugged. ‘Not everyone keeps to the rules. I expect Count Henry will fine whoever lives there.’

  There were straight roofs and sagging roofs—some green with moss, others black with mildew. Every now and then a tree poked up from a garden or square. Alleys and side streets ran every which way. The place was a maze.

  ‘From here you can see that the barracks are inside the old Roman walls,’ Lucien said, pointing. ‘As is St Peter’s Cathedral, we shall be married in the porch. Look, there’s the Bishop’s palace....’

  As Lucien talked, they promenaded slowly around the walls. He had covered her hand with his own. Isobel did not think he was aware of what he was doing, though she was very much aware of him. He ran his thumb softly over her knuckles and she felt him quietly taking measure of her wrist.

  Something inside her trembled and her cheeks were hot. Lucien flustered her. Why had no one warned her she might react in this way? In truth, he had done little, merely stroke her wrist with those long fingers...was her response normal? She had no way of knowing. Nuns—sworn to a life of celibacy—never spoke of such things.

  Isobel stared across the city roofs, hoping Lucien would think she was attending to his every word rather than wondering at sensations such as she had never felt before. Such disturbing sensations...

  ‘And this quarter here...’ Lucien’s voice changed, and when she steeled herself to meet his gaze, she caught the tail end of a smile and her gut clenched. He should smile more often, it takes years from him. His nose wrinkled. ‘I wouldn’t recommend you venture into those particular streets.’

  Isobel couldn’t help notice that Lucien’s eyes were lingering on her mouth. ‘Those streets are dangerous?’ she asked, thoughts beginning to whirl as she came to a realisation. Lucien is attracted to me. Perhaps he is as attracted to me as I am to him...

  How am I to keep him at bay if there is an attraction on both sides? With Mama’s history, I can’t risk a pregnancy. Her mother’s pain-filled cries echoed through her mind, she had fought so valiantly to give birth to an heir. That will not be my fate.

  ‘They are dangerous if you have a sensitive nose.’ Lucien grimaced. ‘That’s where you’ll find the tanneries.’

  A pungent smell proved the truth of his words. They hurried past holding their breath, and came down from the walls by a grain market. After crossing a square containing a handful of market stalls, they entered a shadowy street where the upper storeys of the houses leaned to within inches of their neighbours opposite.

  Isobel’s gaze fell on a man weaving his way through the townsfolk. It was only a glimpse—an unshaven face peering out from beneath a brown hood—but it was enough. She gripped Lucien’s arm. ‘My lord!’

  Lucien narrowed his gaze as he scoured the street. Children and dogs were racing in and out of the crowded alleyways, blocking his view.

  ‘There, my lord, by that tavern.’

  Vivid blue eyes met hers. ‘Isobel, I warn you—’

  ‘He’s going inside!’

  The door shut. Isobel released Lucien’s sleeve and picked up her skirts.

  ‘A moment, my lady.’ A firm hand held her in place. ‘That’s the Black Boar, you weren’t thinking of challenging him in there?’

  ‘He shall not have that relic.’

  She took a step, but Lucien blocked her, shaking his head.

  ‘My lady, I should not have to remind you—it is not your place to chase him.’

  Isobel opened her mouth to object, but disapproval was large in his eyes and the words froze on her lips.

  He swept on. ‘Firstly, the man would have to be insane to have kept the relic on him, he will have passed it to someone else. Secondly, it will be dangerous for you to approach him. You must take more care. It’s likely he saw you run out of the Abbey—you weren’t particularly discreet.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘And thirdly, it’s entirely possible the women inside will tear you to pieces.’ Lucien ran his hand round the back of his neck. ‘My lady, the Black Boar is not a place for ladies of gentle birth.’

  Isobel did not know how it was, but in an instant she understood what he was saying. ‘It’s a brothel?’

  ‘My lady!’

  She put up her chin. ‘You are shocked. I may have lived much of my life in a convent, but I have heard of such places. And you have no need to worry that I shall ask how you know it’s a brothel. I have been well schooled.’

  ‘Well schooled?’ He looked at her. ‘That I would seriously question.’

  Her chin inched higher; she knew her cheeks must be aflame. ‘I have learned enough to know that ladies must never question their menfolk on such matters.’

  Dark colour ran into Lucien’s cheeks.

  ‘My lady, I assure you I have never set foot in the Black Boar.’

  Isobel gave him a considering look. His tone—and the earnest expression in those blue eyes—told her he was speaking the truth. ‘I admit, that is a relief.’

  She tucked her arm into his, and smiled up at him. Once again, he was looking at her mouth, his expression unreadable. Her stomach tightened. It could be her imagination, but she rather thought his mouth was edging into a reluctant smile. ‘My lord, I am no faintheart. If you are with me, I am certain all will be well...’

  He shook his head, even as Isobel saw—yes, it was a definite smile. The man really should smile more often.

  ‘I will be your champion, of course.’

  I amuse him. ‘Thank you, my lord.’

  Lucien pushed at the inn door and they stepped over the threshold. It was a relief to know that Lucien had never patronised it, but Isobel could not help but wonder whether there were other, similar, establishments that he had patronised.

  Chapter Four

  Inside, smoke gusted from a central fire. The shutters were closed and the air was stale. The stench was overpowering. Candle grease, mutton stew, and human sweat. Customers hunched round the fire, leather mugs in hand. Rushlights guttered, sooty streamers trailed upwards.

  ‘Hell of a draught,’ someone bellowed.

  A boy leaped at the door, and the gloom deepened.

  Isobel gripped Lucien’s arm, he had been right to warn her about this place. For all her bravado, she had never been in an inn like this. A full-bosomed woman was leaning through a serving hatch. The cut of her gown would doubtless give the Abbess an apoplexy. Faces turned tow
ards them—unearthly in the fire-glow.

  Isobel had lost sight of the thief. Several girls were moving among the customers—bright hair ribbons shone through the murk: yellow, violet, blue. The girls’ clothes were cleverly laced to show off swelling breasts and slender waists. Isobel found herself staring.

  A potboy materialised. ‘Drink?’ He looked Isobel up and down. ‘Or is it a bedchamber you are wanting, sir?’

  Isobel’s cheeks scorched. When Lucien’s stern expression lightened—he is amused—she avoided his eyes.

  ‘We would like a cup of your best red, thank you,’ he said. ‘We shall take it over there, in the corner.’

  The thief was at a table lit by a cloudy horn lantern, deep in conversation with a woman in a moth-eaten shawl. Lucien handed Isobel to a bench a few feet away.

  ‘Can’t we get any closer?’ Isobel murmured.

  Lucien’s lips curved as he settled next to her. Taking her hand, he lifted it to his lips, and her stomach turned over. His blue eyes were as intent as a lover’s. ‘We can get as close as you wish, my dove.’

  Isobel huffed out a breath. Lucien was almost on top of her, the long length of his thigh was warm against hers. She wrenched her hand free and glared at him. ‘My lord, that was not what I meant, and you know it.’

  Lucien’s hand—as warm as his thigh—slid round her waist. ‘Try to look more encouraging,’ he murmured, his voice as caressing as his hand. ‘They take us for sweethearts. Scowl like that and they will become suspicious. We will learn nothing. At the moment your presence is tolerated because they hope I will pay for a private chamber.’

  Isobel swallowed. Lucien’s smile, though charming, was altogether too practised. She recalled how his skin had darkened before they had entered. Lucien might not have been in this particular inn before, but he is not inexperienced. He... Her heart seemed to stutter, and when she noticed his gaze drop to her mouth, she realised with a jolt what was coming.

  ‘Oh...no.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Come here, little dove.’ Pulling her against him, Lucien lowered his lips to hers.

  Isobel froze. Her fingers clenched into fists, fists she pressed up against his chest, pushing against him. But not too hard. She was curious. And furious.

  How could he!

  For years Isobel had lived for some sign of attention from this man. Any sign would have done—a letter sent to the convent in Conques perhaps...even a simple message. He had done nothing. He had ignored her—year, after year, after year.

  And then he had the gall to wait until they were in a smoky inn to kiss her. In a whorehouse, to be precise. She heard a strangled sound and, realising it was coming from her, silenced it. He was kissing her as a pretence, the devil. He didn’t want her. Her pulse thudded. She wished he would stop, she couldn’t breathe. She was going to faint. Lord, no, she wasn’t, she liked his kiss.

  His mouth softened and he eased back. ‘Relax, Isobel, you will convince no one like that.’

  She pushed against his chest with little effect, her strength had deserted her.

  When a large hand crept to her cheek, cradling it in his palm, making tiny caressing circles with his fingertips, pleasure shot along every nerve. She bit back a moan. It was fortunate that his hand hid her face from onlookers. She felt hot, and confused, and...her womb seemed to ache. He doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t know me. In the years she had lived in the south he had not shown the slightest interest in her welfare. I am just another trophy to him. I am a prize. Lucien is marrying me for my inheritance.

  And then his mouth was on hers again and her thoughts scattered. Isobel forgot they were in the Black Boar; she forgot why they were here; she forgot everything. The nuns, the relic, the thief—they no longer existed. The world had narrowed down to Lucien, to the arm wound round her waist, to the lips on hers. There was simply nothing else.

  Lucien’s scent, musky and mysterious, surrounded her. His touch warmed her blood, her breasts felt heavy. The need to unclench her fists and wind her arms about his neck was irresistible. He was making her want to kiss his cheekbones and that scar on his temple. He was making...

  She felt his tongue on hers and gasped. His tongue? She tore her lips from his.

  ‘Wh...what are you doing?’

  His eyes—it must be something to do with the mean light—were almost black. ‘Kissing my betrothed,’ he murmured.

  Something thumped on to the table.

  ‘Your wine,’ the potboy said. He had a distinct snigger in his voice. ‘Are you certain you won’t be wanting that bedchamber, sir?’

  Isobel moaned with the shame of it and, even more shaming, found herself wrestling with the impulse to hide her face against Lucien’s chest.

  The dark head shook. ‘No, thank you. We are...negotiating terms. Later perhaps.’

  ‘Negotiating terms?’ Isobel glared at him. ‘I hate you, I really hate you.’

  ‘No,’ came the soft answer. ‘Thankfully, I don’t think you do.’

  He had done kissing her, it seemed. Strong hands were smoothing back hair that had escaped from her veil. He kept her tight against him—the arm encircling her waist felt proprietorial. And so it was, she supposed. I am his betrothed. His heiress. I am his latest trophy.

  Lucien leaned against the wall of the inn, taking her with him, making her drape her arm about him. ‘There, isn’t it a relief to have got it out of the way?’

  ‘Got what out of the way?’ Isobel spoke sharply, hoping to conceal the most unsettling discovery. She liked being tucked against Lucien almost as much as she liked kissing him. It felt as though they belonged together. She was not feeling unalloyed pleasure though. She also felt anger—but whether she was more angry with herself or with him she could not say.

  This man ignored me for years. I am nothing to him but a means to an end.

  ‘Our first kiss.’ Lightly, he touched her nose. ‘On the whole, it was quite enjoyable. Far better than I had hoped.’

  She ground her teeth together. On the whole... ‘Lucien, I swear—’

  ‘Yes, yes, you hate me.’ Leaning towards her, he kissed her ear. Except that he wasn’t really kissing it, he was using the kiss to conceal the jerking of his head towards the next table. ‘Listen...can you hear?’

  Isobel fought to ignore the rush of tingling evoked by his kiss and concentrated on the nearby table. Two heads, the shawled and the hooded, were close together.

  ‘Your man said to tell you that he will be at the next tournament,’ the woman said.

  The thief wiped his nose with a ragged sleeve. ‘I take it you don’t mean the Twelfth Night joust in Troyes Castle?’

  The woman laughed. It was a dry sound, like the rustling of leaves. ‘Don’t be a fool, that one will be bristling with Count Henry’s Guardians. I am speaking about the All Hallows Tourney at the Field of the Birds. I am told...’ the woman lowered her voice and Isobel barely caught the words ‘...your man has a buyer in mind. He will pay well for a relic that belonged to St Foye.’

  ‘Better than last time?’

  ‘Much better. He will meet you at the beginning of the tourney, at the vespers when the young knights run through their paces.’

  ‘Before the vespers?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Firelight glinted in a shard of broken glass by the thief’s elbow. ‘Where? Where shall I meet him?’

  ‘He will find you.’ The woman gave a snort of laughter. ‘He ought to know you by now.’ Keeping her shawl firmly about her, she rose and scurried out.

  Careful to keep her voice low, Isobel looked at Lucien. ‘Did you see her face?’ Where is the Field of the Birds? Isobel was bursting with other questions, but she bit her tongue on the rest, the hooded man was too close.

  Lucien’s hand tightened its hold. ‘No. You?’

  ‘Not so much as a hair on her head.’ Isobel sighed and tried to put space between them. As she did so, she realised with horror that whilst she had been listening to the conversation on the next table, Lucien
had taken possession of her other hand. Their fingers were entwined. How had she not noticed? Under the pretext of picking up her wine, she hastily disentangled herself.

  She took a wary sip. The wine was earthy and faintly sour; it had an unpleasant undertone that defied identification. Ordinarily, Isobel wouldn’t dream of drinking it, but she was glad to have the excuse to edge out of Lucien’s arms. He discomposed her. He made her forget herself. Shooting him a glance, she caught his eyes on her, distant, watchful.

  ‘Must you look at me like that?’ she asked.

  ‘You are not as I expected.’

  ‘If you had troubled yourself to visit me at Conques, you would have come to know me.’

  His face went hard. ‘It is not necessary to know a woman in order to marry her.’

  Isobel stared. ‘You are blunt, my lord.’ Her fingers curled into her palms. ‘You want my lands.’

  Lucien leaned in. His eyes were no longer dark as they had been when they had kissed, they gleamed with intent. Ruthless, he is utterly ruthless. Those eyes were the eyes of a man who never took his eyes from his target. ‘I admit your lands will be useful,’ he said quietly. ‘My lady, only a fool would turn down the chance of enlarging his estates. But I am not marrying you solely for your lands. I am marrying you to honour the oath I swore at our betrothal. My father was sorely disappointed at the delay. I did him wrong in the matter of our marriage and that wrong has sat heavy in my mind for years. The time has come to put it right.’

  Isobel frowned. ‘Your father died some years ago. Why wait till now to honour your oath to wed me?’

  It was as though Lucien had not heard her. That hard gaze shifted to the jug of wine, although she doubted that he saw it.

  ‘I need an heir.’

  Isobel’s hand jerked. Wine slopped on to the table. An heir. He means a male heir, the one thing my mother could not give my father. The one thing Isobel was afraid she would not be able to give him. Lucien’s mouth, the mouth that had stirred such feelings in her, was set in a hard, uncompromising line. When Lucien put his mind to it, he would be relentless. What would happen to her if she failed him as her mother had failed her father? Two great fears twisted together in her mind: I may not be capable of giving him an heir. I may die in the attempt.