Carol Townend

by Lady Isobel's Champion

  ‘Thank you.’

  With a flourish, Sir Gawain gestured towards a stairway that lay against the curtain wall. ‘After you, my lady.’

  At the top, Isobel paused to cast her eyes over the range of buildings huddled in the bailey. ‘The hall and west tower I know already, since my lord has made the west tower his own. And that building down there is the stables,’ she said, eyeing the sagging roof timbers. ‘My lord showed me the new foal yesterday. I take it the building to the left of the stables is the smithy?’

  ‘Aye, my lady. And the smaller building, the one near the west tower with smoke seeping through the vents, that’s the bakehouse.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir Gawain.’ As Isobel scanned the yard, she frowned. Something was missing, no castle was complete without an armoury. Where was it? Her attention was drawn to the easternmost tower. ‘And the east tower? Does that house the armoury?’

  ‘Why, yes, my lady. The guardhouse takes up the ground floor, the armoury is above it.’

  ‘And the upper floors?’

  Sir Gawain cleared his throat, and though he continued to hold her gaze, it came to her that his stance was wary. ‘I am not sure, my lady. I expect they are used for storage. I have not been above the armoury myself.’

  The east tower, unlike its twin on the western side of the bailey, was completely shrouded in ivy. Weeds were growing around the base and, if Isobel were not mistaken, in cracks in the masonry at the top. ‘The arrow-loops are choked with creeper.’

  Sir Gawain flushed. ‘I noticed that. The creeper will be attended to, my lady.’

  ‘When we have finished up here, I should like to see the armoury.’

  ‘It will be my pleasure to show it to you.’

  Isobel stared a moment longer at the eastern tower, and shivered. The ivy had a stranglehold on the masonry, and some of the weeds at the base were so large, they must have taken root years ago. No part of Ravenshold was in prime condition, but the eastern tower had a particular air of abandonment. Of sadness. ‘Are those brambles?’

  ‘They too will be removed.’

  ‘And the leaves. The bailey can’t have been swept in a decade.’

  Sir Gawain’s lips twitched. ‘As my lady commands.’

  Giving the eastern tower a last glance, Isobel turned to look over the battlements towards the village. Praise the saints, here, all was in order. The field strips were clear of stubble and the earth was ploughed over, ready for winter. The vines had been neatly pruned. On the other side of the road was a small orchard, the grass beneath the fruit trees had been smoothly scythed. The contrast between the order outside the curtain walls and the disorder within was marked.

  ‘Sir Gawain, it would seem that in my husband’s absence, his vassals have shown more diligence than the castle servants.’

  ‘That appears to be true,’ Sir Gawain said, carefully. ‘Which reminds me, my lord asked me to tell you that tomorrow he is recruiting servants from the village. He wondered if you would care to join him in selecting them.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir Gawain, I should be pleased to.’

  Isobel gazed out at Lucien’s land, and Sir Gawain stepped back to exchange words with a guard on the boardwalk.

  ‘Dereliction,’ Elise murmured. ‘Complete dereliction.’

  Elise was staring at the eastern tower, her expression arrested. Isobel followed her gaze. Doubtless Elise was referring to the weeds, the brambles, the drifts of leaves. Isobel didn’t have the heart to chastise Elise for her insolence; any fool could see that Lucien’s neglect of Ravenshold was shameful. It was odd though—the neglect seemed to be completely at variance with what Isobel had observed of his character.

  His love of tournaments must be to blame. If he had directed all his energies towards the tourneys, he might have ignored his other duties. What about his other lands? Were they in the same state as Ravenshold? Could he not delegate? Sir Gawain struck her as being a responsible man. If Sir Gawain had only just been appointed steward, he was not to blame for conditions here. Who was Sir Gawain replacing? Whoever they were, they had been worse than useless. None of which spoke well of Lucien’s ability to judge character.

  ‘You will certainly be needing more servants, my lady,’ Elise muttered. ‘Other than a couple of stable-hands who Count Lucien seems to have taken on as pages, I’ve not seen any worthy of the name.’

  Isobel climbed on to the parapet. They were almost above the gatehouse, and through the machicolations she could see the road below them.

  ‘My lord has been occupied with the tourneys, Elise. Also, I believe his other holdings may have claimed his attention.’ At least, I hope they did. Dear Lord, don’t let his other castles be as run-down as this one!

  Elise gave her a straight look. ‘Lord d’Aveyron has been absent from Ravenshold for too long.’

  Isobel bristled. ‘You overstep the bounds, Elise; that is not for you to say.’

  ‘I am sorry, my lady, I speak as I see.’ Elise’s eyes seemed to bore into her. ‘And I see that you are already half in love with him. Take care, my lady, take care.’

  ‘What can you mean?’ Isobel’s skin prickled as, back on the boardwalk, Sir Gawain slapped the guard on the shoulder and started in their direction.

  Elise leaned in. ‘Take care, my lady, that is all. The Count is not what he seems.’

  The Count is not what he seems?

  And then Sir Gawain was back at her side, and Elise flushed and effaced herself in her usual manner, and Isobel had no opportunity to question her about her cryptic remark. Half her mind listened to Sir Gawain describing how Lucien had recently altered the span of time men sat on watch at the gatehouse. The other half was occupied in thinking about her husband.

  Am I in love with him? She did not feel as though she was in love. In truth, Isobel did not know Lucien well enough to be in love with him. There was one sense in which they seemed to be ideally suited—in the bedchamber. Otherwise...

  I hardly know him. He is a tourney champion with more prizes to his name than any other knight in Champagne. He allows Ravenshold to fall into rack and ruin, apparently without a qualm. He has great charm, charm he has no doubt employed to good effect over the years. He has admitted he has had lovers.

  Isobel thought back to her arrival on the previous day, Lucien’s charm had been much in evidence then. She had seen it in the easy manner in which he had greeted her, taking her straight to see the new foal. Was that all that had been—charm? Or was there more to it than that? Could it signify a growing bond between them? If only that were so. She was not in love but she did want him to like her.

  Lucien does like you. A bond is forming between you. His delight in the foal was genuine and he wanted to share it with you.

  On the other hand, she might be wrong. The bond might exist only in her mind.

  Brow puckering, heavy of heart, Isobel cast her gaze over the weed-choked base of the tower. The brambles looked like tangled black wire. Impenetrable.

  She sighed. If Lucien was not the man she had hoped for, she must make the best of it. She was his wife. She should count her blessings, and blessings there were...

  He is gentle in bed, his touch is a joy—he has obviously had far too much practice at loving women. She grimaced. She would find out about his belle amie if it killed her.

  In her mind, she conjured the image of a glittering diamond moon. He is generous. Another image flashed before her—of Lucien charging, pennon streaming, into the lists. He is a great tourney champion.

  A gust of wind lifted the edge of her veil, and her skin chilled. Elise said Lucien is not what he seems—what can she mean?

  Through a machicolation, there was movement. A girl in a moss-green cloak and grey gown was walking towards the gatehouse. Vaguely, Isobel was conscious of the girl hailing a sentry, but Sir Gawain was claiming her attention.

  ‘My lady?’

  ‘Sir?’

  Sir Gawain embarked on a discussion about the crops which flourished best in the
fields outside the curtain wall. Isobel nodded as he pointed out the neat rows of vines; the orchard; the villeins’ field strips.

  ‘You see that line of trees on the horizon, my lady?’

  ‘I see them.’

  ‘Just beyond the trees lies the Field of the Birds.’

  ‘I had not realised it was so close to Ravenshold,’ she murmured.

  Sir Gawain leaned against a merlon, and launched into an account of the annual tournaments that in Lucien’s father’s day, the Lord of Ravenshold had hosted. Her husband wasn’t the only knight in Ravenshold to be obsessed with tourneying; Isobel couldn’t get a word in. At length, Sir Gawain came to a halt with a rueful grin, perhaps realising that his lord might not thank him for drawing his Countess’s attention too forcibly to Ravenshold’s past glories.

  ‘My apologies, my lady, I talk too much.’

  ‘Not at all, sir. I see you share my husband’s interests.’ Isobel turned to the stairs. ‘I should like to see the armoury next.’

  They were crossing the courtyard when Isobel noticed a fenced area behind the east tower. She could see shrubs and trees. A garden! And as far as Isobel could see, the garden was a far cry from the wasteland at the base of the east tower where ivy wrestled with bramble in the fight for survival. That bay tree had surely been pruned. Someone tended these plants.

  ‘One moment, Sir Gawain, I must see that garden.’

  ‘Of course. I shall wait for you here, my lady. I know nothing about gardens. Solène will answer your questions.’

  ‘Solène?’

  ‘Solène tends the herb garden.’

  A pathway ran between the eastern tower and what looked like a storehouse. Isobel walked down it with Elise at her elbow. Herb beds were cut into a grassy area behind the tower, with hazel hurdles marking the boundary.

  At this hour, the beds lay in the shadow of the eastern tower—a rosemary bush was rimed with frost. The beds were clear of weeds. The roses and lavender had been pruned, and the herbs harvested. A robin was pecking about in some straw that had been strewn over various plants to protect them from winter.

  ‘Elise, I had thought to ask you to establish an herb garden, but there is no need. Thank Heaven, someone in Ravenshold understands her work,’ Isobel said. ‘Where is she?’

  Elise indicated a thatched hut at the end of a grassy path. ‘Perhaps she is in there, my lady?’ Kneeling by the path, Elise bruised the leaves of the rosemary and sniffed her fingertips. ‘This would be good in the kitchen.’

  ‘Indeed it would,’ Isobel said, going towards the hut.

  As Isobel approached, the hut door opened. Solène, for this must be she, was some years older than Isobel. Dark eyes looked out from a face weathered by hours spent out of doors. Her hair was grey and thin. Plaited. And her hands—with their short, soil-engrained nails, and enlarged joints—were unquestionably the hands of a gardener. She was wearing a simple brown gown that was frayed at the hem.

  ‘You are Solène?’

  The dark eyes looked at her with curiosity, the skin around them creased. ‘Aye, I am Solène. Who might you be?’

  ‘I am Isobel of Turenne, now wife to Count Lucien.’

  Solène’s mouth sagged. ‘Wife? You are his wife?’

  Thinking Solène might be hard of hearing, Isobel raised her voice. ‘Yes, I am Countess d’Aveyron.’ She gestured at the tidy herb beds. ‘You must work hard to keep this garden in order.’

  ‘Aye.’ Solène’s gaze flickered to Elise and returned to Isobel. ‘Can I help you, my lady?’

  ‘Not at present. Today I am learning my way around. Later I hope that you will supply herbs for the kitchen. I am also hoping you will be able to tell me whether my lord keeps a store of medicaments at Ravenshold.’

  Solène gave a sharp bark of laughter. ‘Not he. The other lady did, God save her, but her herbs will have lost their virtue. You will want fresh ones.’

  ‘The other lady?’

  Solène went white and backed towards the door of the hut. ‘Tomorrow, my lady. We can talk tomorrow. Herbs for the kitchen, yes, I shall see to that.’

  The door closed with a crack and Isobel found herself staring at a knot in the wood.

  His other lady. Isobel had found the proof she was looking for. A wave of nausea swept through her. Lucien had lied. Her perfect, handsome knight had lied.

  Chapter Fourteen

  His other lady? Solène was talking about his mistress. His other lady.

  Disappointment had turned Isobel’s bones to ice. She felt brittle. Fragile. She had begun to trust Lucien, had begun to believe that he would not lie to her, and that he had spoken the truth when he had sworn that he did not have a mistress. But here was Solène, a long-time inhabitant of Ravenshold, mentioning another lady.

  The Troyes gossips had known the truth of it. Where is she? Has he sent her away?

  Haunting questions. Questions that remained with her as she walked through a haze of hurt to where Sir Gawain awaited them at the foot of the tower. Questions that lingered at the back of her mind as Sir Gawain escorted them into the guard-house on the ground floor. Elise did not speak, and Isobel stood with a fixed smile on her face as she was introduced to the guards. She hoped she said the right thing. The men’s names escaped her. They said they were pleased to meet her, and she said that she was pleased to meet them—at least she hoped she did. They had good, honest faces.

  ‘And now, my lady,’ Sir Gawain said, gesturing at the stairwell. ‘You wish to inspect the armoury?’

  ‘My thanks, I do.’ Isobel moved in a daze towards the twisting stair.

  Lucien lied about his mistress. This should not upset me—I must remember ours is a political marriage. She repeated the words like a litany several times in her head—ours is a political marriage.

  By the time she reached the armoury she had regained her composure. Two boys were sitting on three-legged stools in a stripe of light from a window, fletching arrows. A scatter of unfletched arrow-shafts lay on the table before them. Isobel blinked hard, the stink of glue was eye-watering.

  The boys sprang to their feet. ‘Countess Isobel! May we be of assistance?’

  ‘It’s all right, Renan,’ Sir Gawain said. ‘Please continue. I am looking after the Countess this morning.’

  The boys sat and bent over their work.

  The armoury was immaculate. The curved walls were whitewashed and hung with shields; a trestle held an assortment of swords and daggers of all sizes; several bows hung on a rack; and a collection of spears was stacked in a stand—tips gleaming razor-sharp. It would seem that the herb garden was not the only well-run part of the castle.

  ‘How very telling,’ Isobel murmured.

  ‘My lady?’

  ‘The armoury and guard-room betray where my husband’s heart lies.’ She lifted her chin. ‘I cannot help but regret that he did not find someone reliable to take charge in the domestic sphere.’

  Sir Gawain looked distinctly uncomfortable. ‘Yes, my lady.’

  Isobel watched the boys at their fletching, it was clear they had been well schooled. She sighed. She should feel relieved to have learned that in military matters her husband was in full command. But she didn’t. She felt sick to the bone.

  She looked brightly at Sir Gawain. ‘Thank you for bringing me here. I shall go up the tower next.’

  Sir Gawain’s smile froze. ‘The rooms above are disused, I wouldn’t recommend it. It will be dusty. Dirty. Come, my lady.’ He made a shooing gesture, urging her towards the stairwell. ‘I will show you the kitchens.’

  ‘I saw the kitchens yesterday.’

  ‘Have you seen the log store, my lady? The undercroft?’

  Sir Gawain was most anxious to dissuade her from climbing the tower. Isobel looked thoughtfully at him. What was he trying to hide? Her interest quickened. ‘The log store? Really, sir, can’t you do better than that?’

  ‘My lady?’

  Isobel gave him a straight look. ‘Count Lucien has already told me
the log store is empty. Since he has himself ordered supplies, I have no need to see it.’

  ‘My lady...’

  The desperation in Sir Gawain’s expression would be laughable, if it were not so worrying. There was something on a higher floor that he was adamant she must not see. Evidence of Lucien’s mistress? A bedchamber, perhaps? The more Lucien’s knight tried to prevent her from climbing those stairs, the more anxious she was to go up.

  ‘My lady, no one’s been above the armoury in an age. It will be filthy up there. Unswept. You risk soiling that lovely gown—’

  ‘Sir, I care not about my gown.’ Giving him a sweet smile, Isobel picked up her skirts and stepped into the shady chill of the stairwell. ‘I expect there will be a good view of my lord’s lands from the top. Elise, you may wait below if you wish.’

  ‘I shall come with you,’ Elise said.

  As Isobel and Elise began to climb, Sir Gawain’s voice wound up after them. ‘The best view is from the western tower! My lady, Count Lucien will be most concerned to hear you have been risking yourself in such a way. I am not sure the upper floors are sound. Countess, this is most ill advised...’

  * * *

  The round chamber directly above the armoury appeared to be, as Sir Gawain had suggested, a storage room. Spare trestles were stacked against the wall, next to several packing crates. They were festooned with spiders’ webs. A faded blue banner was propped next to them. Moths had eaten it down to the backing cloth—Lucien’s raven looked as though it were in moult. There were two broken stools. A cracked clay pot. The rusted head of an axe lay in one corner, alongside a number of broken arrow shafts that should have gone for kindling months ago.

  ‘It is as Sir Gawain said...’ Elise murmured, lip curling as she fingered the banner and sent up a cloud of dust ‘...a storage room. Shall we go on?’

  Isobel murmured assent, and followed Elise up another turn. She was relieved that Sir Gawain had not come with them. The room they had left might only be a storage room but she was certain there were secrets at the top.

  The stairs came to an abrupt halt at a bolted iron door leading on to the parapet. A wooden door next to it opened on another round chamber. It was not a bedchamber, it was a workroom. Of sorts.