Carol Townend

by Lady Isobel's Champion

  ‘Abbess Ursula says prayer will bring it back to them.’

  Isobel made an impatient noise. ‘Prayer has its place, Elise, but action is needed if we are to retrieve the relic.’ She smiled. ‘I have spent much of my life in the company of nuns, and kind though they are, they live too much with the angels. You and I are made of more earthly stuff. We shall give it another half-hour, and if we haven’t seen our man by then, I promise we shall return to the palace.’

  * * *

  Lucien glared through his visor. ‘Isobel’s trying to melt into the crowd. Blast the woman. I warned her I was too busy to attend to her today. She’s shaping up to be as ungovernable as Morwenna.’

  ‘Lovely though, don’t you agree?’ Raoul jammed on his helmet and fastened his chin strap, muttering something that Lucien could not catch.

  Even across the field, Lucien saw the instant Isobel clutched at her maid. He followed the direction of her gaze. Holy Virgin, she’s found him! Or rather, the thief had found her. The man must have slept in a hedgerow for the past few nights—he was unshaven, his hair hung down in greasy rat’s tails, and his clothes looked as though they had been fashioned from sacking. They were filthy. He was filthy. And he’d seen Isobel.

  The man’s reaction removed any faint hope that he might not recognise her. He jerked his hood down and started forcing his way towards her through the crush by the rope. Lucien glimpsed a grim face and the flicker of steel. Ice shivered through him.

  He knows she could convict him.

  Elise screamed.

  Isobel! Duty forgotten, Lucien dug his spurs into Demon. He thundered towards the rope, and the crowd scattered.

  Someone cried, ‘Knife! Beware!’

  Isobel and Elise were scrambling away from the thief when Isobel tripped and went down.

  Elise shrieked. ‘My lady!’

  Lucien’s heart was in his mouth. He had five yards to go...four... Demon powered over the rope and Lucien hauled him to an earth-shaking standstill. The thief slipped like an eel into the crowd.

  Isobel was sprawled in a muddy patch, her skirts a green froth about her knees. Her veil had slipped and mud from Demon’s hoofs was splattered on her forehead and bodice.

  Lucien whipped off his helmet. Wide green eyes stared up at him. She was white as snow.

  ‘Lucien?’

  ‘My lady, are you all right?’ Elise said, hovering over her.

  Isobel held Lucien’s gaze. Her breasts were rising and falling, and hectic spots of colour burned in her cheeks.

  ‘You are unhurt, my lady?’ Lucien was on his knees at her side before he had thought. In a quiet corner of his mind, he noted with surprise that his heart was pounding as though he were in the midst of a mêlée.

  ‘I...’ She looked affronted and pushed down her skirts. ‘He had a knife!’

  Lucien felt his tension ease. If Isobel was well enough to be affronted, she was unharmed. He felt a powerful urge to shake her. By deliberately flouting his orders, she had put herself in harm’s way. ‘So I saw. My lady, if you could but have waited, I would have helped you retrieve the reliquary.’

  ‘I had to come.’ She was searching the crowd. ‘I heard the thief was here, and—’

  He swore under his breath. ‘My lady, you placed yourself in danger. I believe I mentioned that I could not assist you today.’

  ‘You are busy. I understand.’

  Something in her tone grated, she sounded more aggrieved than seemed possible, given the relic did not belong to her. Was there more on her mind? Or was this simply the anger of a spoilt woman, upset because she had been ordered not to attend?

  He gritted his teeth. If his second marriage was to succeed, Isobel would have to learn who was master. At least she was unharmed. Inside, a small voice murmured that perhaps he should have explained why he was not in a position to help her today. But Lucien had never been in the habit of explaining himself to anyone.

  ‘My lady, thanks to your folly, I was forced to desert my post.’

  Silence. Those great, green eyes simply looked at him.

  ‘Isobel, I will help you in your quest to retrieve the reliquary, but not today. Today I am occupied.’

  ‘The tournament, I understand.’

  ‘I find myself in the position of unexpectedly fielding a team.’ Leaning back on his haunches, he indicated his pavilion. ‘Several knights have sought hospitality at Ravenshold in recent days.’

  Nodding, she brushed mud from her gown.

  ‘Allow me.’ He reached out to brush a fleck from her cheek, wryly aware that no amount of mud spatter could obscure her beauty. His heartbeat had not yet settled, which led him to an uncomfortable realisation. He didn’t want anyone to hurt a hair on her head—the thought made him distinctly queasy. ‘You are certain he did not touch you?’

  Giving a small headshake, she allowed him to help her to her feet and shook out her skirts. ‘I thank you, my lord, I am unharmed. My lord, I should like to—’

  He stopped her with a gesture. Her spirit was strong, but at this moment she resembled a rose with ruffled petals, a delicate rose. ‘I only have a moment. My lady, since you are here, you will retire to my pavilion. And that is not a suggestion, it is an order.’

  Her eyes flashed. ‘I am not one of your soldiers.’

  Lucien allowed his gaze to rest for a moment on her mud-spattered bodice. ‘No, you are my wife.’ He spoke softly through gritted teeth. ‘You are my Countess. And as such you not only owe me your obedience, you owe some respect to your title. I should like you to behave in a suitable manner. My pavilion is the large blue one with the raven on the—’

  ‘Lord d’Aveyron,’ Isobel cut in, voice dry as dust. ‘I learned your colours years ago.’

  With a slight headshake, Lucien continued. ‘I will send Joris to fetch you. He will find you refreshments. Stay with him until I can escort you back to the palace. Elise?’

  ‘My lord?’ Elise’s voice was scarcely above a whisper.

  ‘See my lady remains where it is safe.’

  Elise bobbed him a curtsy. ‘Yes, Count Lucien.’

  ‘My lady, might I suggest that you consider wearing something less...ostentatious when you next go abroad.’ Lucien touched the purse hanging at Isobel’s belt. ‘You might also consider wearing less plump a purse. And you must take an escort.’

  ‘I did bring an escort!’

  ‘Then where the devil are they?’

  Her nose went up. ‘Tethering the horses.’

  ‘One of them should have remained with you, the Countess d’Aveyron should be accompanied at all times.’

  Her nostrils flared, though when she replied it was mild enough. ‘I thank you for your advice. My lord—’

  A trumpet blast cut her off, and Lucien heard his name. The marshal was summoning him to test the ground. Hell. ‘Wait here,’ Lucien said, preparing to mount. ‘Don’t think about moving until Joris gets here.’

  Chapter Ten

  Joris escorted the Countess d’Aveyron and her maid to the entrance of the blue pavilion. The wind was playing with the Count’s standard—one gust had the raven flashing into view, the next had it vanishing again.

  ‘One moment, my lady.’ Joris looked anxiously at Isobel. ‘My lord said I might find you seats in the stands, provided you accept my company. There’s something I must do for him first.’

  ‘Very well, Joris.’

  ‘You—forgive me for asking, my lady—’ the boy went red ‘—but you will wait here?’

  Isobel smiled. ‘Rest assured, Joris, we shall not stir.’

  Joris ducked into the pavilion. Isobel could hear talking inside—some discussion about armour...

  ‘No, Sir Geoffrey,’ Joris said. ‘Your mail coat is far too short. Count Lucien has said you may borrow his, it will protect your legs.’

  A second voice, presumably Sir Geoffrey’s, replied, ‘My thanks, Joris, but I am wearing my own armour. The Count’s is too heavy, I’m used to mine.’

  ‘
But, Sir Geoffrey...’

  The good-natured wrangling continued, and Isobel took stock of the tourney field. Straw targets were lined up in the centre of the main ground; two quintains stood to the side, near one of the lance-stands. Lucien was the only knight presently on the main field—with no one blocking her line of sight, his colours were instantly recognisable. He was cantering towards a knight stationed by the marshal’s box, his charger’s caparison rippling like waves.

  Isobel’s chest ached. Her husband was the very image of a chivalrous knight. He had been so swift to ride to her rescue. She bit her lip. He had also been swift to order her about. She should not be surprised. That was what men did. But it was disappointing. There he is, so handsome. So strong. My perfect tourney champion. And he orders me about as though I were his squire.

  Sighing, Isobel thought of the songs that had delighted her at Turenne and in the Great Hall last night—the ballads the trouvères carried from hall to hall. They were full of romance. And—she frowned across the field—they were peopled with chevaliers who treated their ladies with respect. Lucien looks the part, but he does not have a romantic bone in his body.

  ‘We are fortunate with the weather, my lady,’ Elise said. ‘I do not think it will rain.’

  Isobel glanced at the sky. The wind was slowly pushing the clouds to the west. A stand of oaks on the edge of the forest had a flock of rooks rising and falling above them—their cawing was faintly audible over the whinnying of horses and the chatter of townsfolk. There was an air of expectation, the tension was palpable.

  It was then that she saw it. A blur of movement at the edge of her sight, a glimpse of brown. It was no more than that. Goose-bumps rose on the back of her arms. A hound running behind the pavilion? Or a person? A person who was hunched over, so as to make themselves small?

  She nudged Elise. ‘Did you see that?’

  ‘My lady?’

  The sun, wintry and pale, poked through the clouds. ‘Something...someone...I am not sure. Elise, I think the thief—’

  Elise gave an abrupt headshake. ‘The Count all but rode him down! He’ll surely stay well clear.’

  ‘I hope so. To be safe, however, we had better join Joris.’ Gripping Elise’s hand, Isobel stepped into the pavilion.

  The conversation came to a halt and three startled pairs of eyes turned their way.

  Joris dropped a coat of mail on to a trestle with a heavy chink. ‘Is all well, my lady?’

  The trestle was bowed beneath its load of arms and harness. A basket of medicaments—bandages and pots of salve—sat beneath it. They are prepared for all eventualities. More goose-bumps formed.

  ‘I am not sure. I thought I saw...something. Joris, I think you should summon Count Lucien.’

  ‘My lady.’

  Joris hurried out, and the knight stepped forwards. As yet he was but lightly armed in a leather gambeson.

  ‘Sir Geoffrey?’

  Nodding, he bowed. ‘You must be Lady Isobel.’

  Isobel nodded. Sir Geoffrey looked impossibly young, for all that he had a breadth of shoulder and air of strength that should serve him well in the coming tournament.

  ‘It is a pleasure to meet you, my lady. I am one of Count Lucien’s household knights. You saw something that concerned you?’

  ‘A thief.’ Isobel rubbed her forehead, her head was beginning to pound. ‘I think.’

  ‘A thief?’ Sir Geoffrey’s smile faded.

  ‘You may have heard about St Foye’s relic? It was stolen from the Abbey Church.’

  ‘The town is talking of little else.’

  ‘Sir, someone is skulking about at the back of the pavilion. If it is the thief, and I cannot swear to it, he is not likely to be playing the Good Samaritan.’

  Sir Geoffrey snatched a sword from the trestle. ‘I’ll take a look.’ He glanced at a boy, presumably his squire. ‘Harry, stay with the ladies.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Sir Geoffrey’s squire—a baby-faced child—stood very straight. His small hand fastened round the hilt of his dagger.

  Isobel listened while Elise clung to her hand. Snarls and yelps spoke of a dogfight nearby. She heard a hoot of laughter, and the cawing of the rooks at the edge of the forest. Sir Geoffrey’s progress round the pavilion was marked by the subtle chink of spurs and a faint shadow moving across the canvas. No, two shadows...

  Isobel heard a muffled exchange, then a voice, raised in anger. ‘Fool!’

  A chilling grunt was followed by a long, bubbling groan. Someone choked out a name. ‘Clare!’

  Elise was crushing her fingers to the bone, but Isobel barely noticed, she was transfixed by the shadows on the pavilion wall. The blue canvas bulged as something fell against it and dark colour bled through. The colour of pain. Of death? God, save us.

  Elise opened her mouth and screamed.

  Isobel shook herself free, grabbed the basket of medicaments, and dashed outside.

  * * *

  Lucien drew level with his pavilion and threw himself off Demon. It was no good telling himself that a woman’s scream was designed to chill the blood, that it was designed to summon help. This scream nearly stopped his heart.

  Is that Isobel? Is she safe?

  Almost tripping over a guy-rope in his haste to reach her, Lucien followed Joris’s pointing finger and ran round the back. He took the scene in at a glance. ‘Jesu!’

  It was ugly. A body lay on the grass. Geoffrey! Isobel was kneeling in front of him. Her head was bare—she was pressing her veil to a wound in Geoffrey’s neck. Her gown was smeared with blood, as was the tip of her golden plait.

  Time seemed to stop. The basket Lucien recognised from the pavilion sat untouched at Isobel’s side. Her cloak was gone—no, not gone, there was a wad of green under Geoffrey’s head. Out of the chaos in his mind, relief briefly took precedence. It is not Isobel’s blood, Isobel is unharmed.

  Lucien turned his attention to Geoffrey. The lad’s eyes were glassy. Unfocused. Too late. We are too late. Geoffrey has gone. There was too much blood. A section of his pavilion looked as though it had been daubed with red paint...

  It was Elise screaming. The noise was as sharp as a blade, and it was attracting an audience.

  ‘Enough, Elise!’ he snapped.

  Elise stumbled off, whimpering.

  ‘Joris?’

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘You and Harry...take Geoffrey into the pavilion. Get help if you need it. Isobel...’ Her long eyelashes glistened with tears. Heart in his throat, guts in a tangle, for Geoffrey had been one of his most promising knights, Lucien held out his hand and softened his voice. ‘We can help Geoffrey best in the privacy of the pavilion.’

  She pushed to her feet, white-faced. Despite the gore on her gown and her blood-dabbled, uncovered hair, she held on to her dignity. ‘Yes, my lord.’

  * * *

  In the pavilion, arms and harness were swept from the trestle and it became Sir Geoffrey’s bier.

  ‘He’s gone,’ Isobel murmured, voice dazed. ‘I was too slow.’

  Lucien squeezed her hand. She was in shock. Truth to tell, he was in shock, he had been fond of Geoffrey. ‘It wasn’t your fault. That wound—look—the knife hit an artery. Impossible to staunch—Geoffrey was lost the moment the cut was made.’ Releasing Isobel, Lucien went to stand over Geoffrey. ‘Geoffrey was unarmed?’

  ‘He had his sword,’ Isobel said.

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Here, my lord.’ Ashen-faced, Harry handed it to him.

  Lucien turned the sword over. The blade was clean. Shiny. Puzzled, he frowned. ‘He didn’t use it.’

  ‘No, my lord.’ Harry’s voice cracked.

  When Isobel went over to the boy and put her arm about him, Lucien felt a pain in his chest. She and Harry were of the same height. Isobel has a good heart. And she held her nerve far better than that useless maid of hers. Speaking of which...

  ‘Where’s Elise?’

  ‘I don’t know, my lord.’


  ‘Joris, find her. Then take three men and escort my lady and the maid back to the palace.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  Taking Isobel by the shoulders, Lucien looked down at her. ‘Go with Joris, I want you away from here with all speed. I will join you when I have seen to Geoffrey. Don’t wait up though, if I finish late, I shall be bedding down in the barracks.’

  * * *

  Isobel had supper before the solar fire, half-heartedly spooning down some mutton broth Elise had brought up on a tray. When night began to steal the colours from the ladies and unicorns on the wall-hangings, she realised it was time to retire. Lucien hadn’t appeared. It wasn’t surprising. Dealing with the aftermath of Geoffrey’s death was bound to take time.

  While Elise hunted out fresh candles, Isobel went into the bedchamber and looked out the window. The glass had a grey tinge to it that seemed to suit twilight. Outside, in the more prosperous streets near the palace, the torches were lit. Yellow lights were flickering into being in windows and doorways. Cooking fires would be banked for the night but none the less, wood-smoke hung over the town like a pall. Elsewhere, dark shadows were forming, sooty wraiths that crept along the canal and the dips between roofs.

  A solitary pigeon beat its way across the darkening sky. Isobel watched the pigeon, throat tightening, and sent up a silent prayer for Sir Geoffrey. Poor boy, he had been so young. God grant that he rest in peace. Unhooking the silver curtain ties, Isobel closed the curtains.

  A faint knocking floated over the panelled screen. By the sound of it, someone was outside the solar door at the top of the stairs. Elise, trimming the wick on a candle, met her eyes.

  ‘See who that is, would you, Elise? If it is Count Lucien, you may admit him. If it is anyone else, please explain that I am about to retire for the night.’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’ Leaving the candle, Elise went through the curtained doorway.

  Isobel found herself staring with some puzzlement at the candles. Elise had left them all behind her. The only light in the solar was fire-glow—she must have good eyes not to take a light with her. With a shrug, she sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off a shoe.