Elise edged to the door. ‘I shall leave you in peace.’
‘My thanks, but you may stay if you are in need of company.’
‘I am fine, thank you, my lady. I would welcome the chance to speak to Solène.’
‘About the herb garden? That is a good idea.’ Isobel smiled, but it was a false smile, there was a burning sensation at the back of her eyes. ‘Solène will welcome your company. You’re quite an expert, after all.’
When Elise had gone, Isobel moved to the window embrasure. The shutter was pinned back, but the bedchamber was gloomy and shadowed—a dark mass of cloud was filling the sky. Lucien was married. All those years I waited for him to come for me and he was married. It was hard to know whether to laugh or cry. He belittled me. And yet—the shock must have disordered her mind—she felt no surprise.
This could explain much...Lucien’s tardiness at claiming me when most of the other girls had left the convent to be married...and, possibly, his obsession with tournaments.
It struck her that Lucien had not mentioned Morwenna’s family. Who was she? Had she brought him lands? Prestige?
Her stomach was churning. She forced herself to think logically, to tease what she had learned into some kind of order. Lucien was young when he married Morwenna. Fifteen. He was little more than a boy. Lucien claimed to have soon become disillusioned as to his wife’s character; he claimed to have wanted an annulment. Isobel shook her head. What a tangle...
Lucien loved Morwenna when he married her. Does he still love her? For her, that was a key question. It ought not to be. Ours is a political marriage. Love is irrelevant, however much I might wish otherwise.
Taking a deep breath, Isobel stared at a faded wall-hanging. There was much left to sort. The lack of an annulment appeared to confirm Lucien’s continuing love for Morwenna. However, she was coming to know him; he had looked sincere when he had said that his first marriage had been a youthful folly.
Isobel had hardly known the previous Comte d’Aveyron, Lucien’s father. She had met him but once, at the betrothal. A heavy-set man with a stiff gait and a bark for a voice, Lucien’s father had made her eleven-year-old self shake in her shoes. And if Lucien could be believed, his father had decreed that the marriage to Morwenna must be annulled. This had not happened. Why? If Lucien’s father had insisted on an annulment, it would have been hard, if not impossible, for his fifteen-year-old son to gainsay him.
Lucien must have loved her. Despite his protestations to the contrary, the lack of an annulment pointed strongly that way. Though if that were the case, why devote so much of his life to tourneying? Why visit Ravenshold so rarely?
Here was mystery. Mystery upon mystery. She clenched her fists. She should not have rushed out of that horrible chamber, she should have stayed to learn more. If she had not been so upset, she would have done. I care too much. I really do care for him—that is why I am upset.
It was an unwelcome thought. And impossible. She should not care about a man who had deceived her so shamefully. Picking up her skirts, she left the bedchamber and went in search of him.
Chapter Fifteen
Lucien wasn’t in the hall or the bailey. No matter. Isobel made a beeline for the east tower, and hurried up the circling stairs. She half-expected someone to stop her, but no one did. Up she went, up past the guardhouse and armoury, up past the storeroom and into Morwenna’s workroom. Lucien wasn’t there either. She felt herself relax. In truth, it would be easier looking for answers without him breathing over her shoulder.
Who was Morwenna? Why the great mystery surrounding their marriage? Once Lucien had dropped the idea of an annulment, why the continuing secrecy?
A slash of sun lay bright as a sword across the dusty table. The glass bead winked in the light. When Lucien had looked at that bead, his face had been lined with pain and regret.
‘Morwenna’s workroom,’ Isobel murmured, running her gaze over the pestle and mortar; over a curl of yellowing parchment and scrap of red linen; over the dried herbs and tiny bones...
It was such a grisly collection. She poked at a tiny skull—a vole’s?—and shuddered. What use could Morwenna possibly have had for the skull of a vole?
This chamber belonged to Lucien’s wife. His wife. It was impossible to remain dispassionate. Elise was right—it might be taken for a witch’s lair. It would take time to sort through everything; she must be methodical. Calm. Taking a deep breath, Isobel pushed back her sleeves and began.
* * *
It didn’t take as long as she had imagined. Half an hour and she had combed through the entire collection. Her fingertips were grey with dust, her nose itched, and she had found nothing to throw light on Morwenna and Lucien’s marriage. Rubbing her nose to hold in a sneeze, she stepped back from the table. It was time to seek out her husband. Lucien must be made to leave the past behind. Whatever he felt for Morwenna, it mattered little. Morwenna is dead. There will be no ghosts in our marriage—Lucien has married me, and I intend to keep him.
Their future might be loveless, but that would not affect her ability to manage his household. She had been well taught. Difficulties might arise with her other duties. She must give him sons. Doubt was a sour taste in her mouth, almost as bitter as the herbs she had taken for so brief a time. Only God knew whether she was capable of giving him a son. Only God knew whether she would survive. I must put my trust in God.
Today, she would begin her management of Lucien’s household by having this chamber cleared. Almost everything could go straight on a fire. The plaster must be renewed—large sections had come away from the wall. Then the chamber could be whitewashed, and then...
Her gaze sharpened. At about waist height, the plaster had fallen away to reveal the wall behind. A small stone protruded. It looked loose, out of place...
The skin prickled on the back of her neck and before she knew it, she had pushed her fingers into the crack and was working at the stone. Pulling, twisting. A fingernail snagged but she kept going until, grating slightly, the stone shifted and thudded to the floor. What remained was a small shelf, rather like a church aumbry. Heart thudding, she peered in. The sharp shine of blue enamel winked out at her. The softer shine of gold. A Limoges reliquary! And she recognised it.
Fingers trembling, she lifted it out. The stolen reliquary! Here? How is this possible? Does Lucien know?
Even as that last question formed, she dismissed it. Lucien had kept her in the dark about Morwenna, but he would have no dealings with thieves. Besides, he had been with her when the relic was taken.
The reliquary glittered, the enamel was jewel-bright. Sapphire, ruby, emerald...
Who put it here? Someone in Ravenshold was in collusion with the thief. Who?
It could not have been Morwenna; she had died before the theft took place.
Isobel put the reliquary on the trestle. Was there no end to the mysteries? Saints, when she had ridden into Ravenshold, she had ridden into a maze.
At the bottom of the stairs, a door slammed. Quick footsteps, Lucien’s, were hurrying up the stairs. Good. She flicked the scrap of red linen over the reliquary. Lucien had said he had more to tell her earlier, and she had refused to hear him. This time she would listen. She would ask her questions. She needed to hear about Morwenna.
Then she would show him the reliquary.
* * *
Lucien halted in the doorway. He had removed his chainmail and wore a blue tunic over a grey shirt. His hair was damp at the ends—he had washed away the dirt of the road before presenting himself to her again.
Hand on his sword-hilt, he gave her a crooked smile. A charming smile. A smile that had doubtless melted the hearts of a dozen maidens on the tourney circuit. It certainly went some way to melting hers. Lucien was far too attractive for Isobel’s peace of mind, it was hard to remain aloof. He was blessed with both strength and height—far better formed than his father. His every feature somehow contrived to give him the advantage, even that scar. It wasn’t fair.
> Next to him, she must look a mess. Her hands were dirty, and there was dust on the hem of her gown. It was likely she had cobwebs in her hair and veil. She lifted her chin. ‘My lord?’ When he bowed, the formality of it tugged at her heartstrings.
‘My Lady, you will hear me out?’
Steeling herself against him as he came towards her, she nodded. She was not going to notice the width of the broad shoulders stretching the blue cloth of his tunic. She was not going to notice that the colour of his tunic matched his eyes.
‘Morwenna was beautiful,’ he said, going straight to the heart of things. ‘She was beautiful, she was older than I and, although I did not realise when I met her, experienced with men. Morwenna had power, the power of a seductress. Once she saw she fascinated me, she did not hesitate to use it.’
‘She seduced you.’
‘It was more than that—I imagined myself in love with her.’
Isobel held her breath. ‘And now?’
He made a swift, negative gesture. ‘What I felt for Morwenna has long gone. Her lies about carrying my child saw to that.’
Isobel let what he had said sink deep into her mind. His demeanour, his expression, his tone of voice—all spoke of sincerity. He is so convincing, I ache to believe him. And that is my weakness, I want to believe him.
She stood very straight. ‘My lord, earlier you said that both you and your father wanted your first marriage to be annulled. Why was it allowed to stand?’
Lucien stared bleakly at the littered table. ‘It was allowed to stand because it became clear that Morwenna was not capable of living on her own.’
Isobel’s chest squeezed. This was the source of his pain. His regret. She touched his sleeve. ‘Tell me more. Could she not have returned to her family?’
The dark head lifted. ‘Morwenna had no family, or none that I could find. Her lack of status was at the root of my father’s objections.’ He inhaled deeply. ‘As I understand it, her father was a troubadour. She was illegitimate.’
‘Her father was a troubadour?’ Isobel felt her jaw drop, and quickly wiped the shock from her face. It was one thing for Lucien to flout his father’s wishes by marrying without his permission, but quite another for him to have married the illegitimate daughter of a trouvère. He must have been well and truly bespelled. No wonder his father had been so displeased. Lucien had married far, far below him.
‘Imagine, the heir to the Comte d’Aveyron marrying the illegitimate daughter of a troubadour,’ he said, mouth twisting. ‘My father damn near disowned me. He would have done if he had had a second son.’ He glanced at her, face softening. ‘As you know, he planned for me to marry a different woman altogether. A noblewoman from a proud and ancient family.’ A strong hand came up and gently straightened her veil. ‘Isobel, he wanted to see us wed, and I regret very much that he did not live to see that day. Believe me when I say I also regret that you and I were not able to marry sooner.’
Isobel hesitated. The more Lucien told her about his first marriage, the more questions sprang into being. Morwenna’s lack of family on its own was not enough to explain why the marriage had not been annulled. Women whose husbands set them aside had choices, limited ones to be sure, but they still had choices. Morwenna could have entered a convent; Lucien could have given her a small grant of land; he could have—
‘Isobel?’
She grimaced. ‘My mind is in a tangle; it is hard to know what to think. But Morwenna’s lack of family in itself does not explain why she was not...’ how had he put it? ‘...capable of living on her own.’
Lucien fingered the scar on his temple, and looked bleakly at the cluttered table. ‘It was all this...this witchery.’
Isobel’s blood went cold. ‘Witchery?’
‘Not witchery, of course, I don’t mean that literally. But you can see for yourself how she was. Her interest in herbs bordered on the obsessive. Morwenna was for ever making ointments and potions and elixirs. You couldn’t get her out of here. It was unnatural. When my father met her, he disliked her on sight. Frankly, he thought her mad.’
He was fingering the scar on the side of his temple again, his gaze focused on a grim landscape in his past.
‘Your father died not long after our betrothal,’ Isobel said softly. There was a lump in her throat as she came to a dreadful realisation. Lucien blames himself for his father’s death.
‘My father died shortly after I told him that I had changed my mind about seeking an annulment.’
Reaching out to cup her face with his palms, blue eyes looked deeply into hers. ‘Isobel, I wanted nothing more than to escape Morwenna. I couldn’t. She was incapable of living on her own. Excited. Dabbling one minute—suicidal the next. I had married her, and I had a responsibility to her. She had never known security, so I brought her to Ravenshold, hoping that she would come to her senses if she spent some time in a safe place.’ His hands fell away, his expression was tortured.
‘You brought her here because Ravenshold is far from d’Aveyron,’ Isobel said.
‘Exactly. I took pains not to broadcast news of my marriage, and only a handful of trusted friends and retainers know of it. My father had fought for the alliance with your family and after his death I was determined that some day, somehow, I would honour our betrothal agreement. I kept waiting for Morwenna to come to her senses, at least enough so that I could divorce her and give her a settlement.’ He touched the scar on his temple. ‘After the stoning, there was no hope of that.’
Isobel’s eyes widened. ‘The stoning?’
‘The villagers feared her. Rumours spread that I kept a witch as a mistress. One day Morwenna left Ravenshold to collect wild herbs and a mob gathered. They started by throwing taunts. Stones soon followed. I intervened.’
‘So that is how you got that scar. I had assumed it was a battle-scar.’
His mouth thinned. ‘It is a battle-scar—I got it dragging Morwenna back into the bailey.’
‘You saved her. And kept her here.’ She gestured about the chamber, at the trestle table, at the cobweb-hung lancet.
His eyebrows snapped together. ‘Morwenna was not imprisoned! She had the run of Ravenshold. Although after the stoning, she was reluctant to venture past the gates.’
‘No one can blame her for that.’
Silence stretched between them. Wind whistled past the cobwebs, lifting a feather from the table, wafting it from side to side as it fell to the floor.
Lucien did his best for Morwenna. He says he no longer loved her—there is no way I may discover whether that is the truth or not. In a sense, it is irrelevant. What matters is that Lucien fulfilled his duties as her husband. He behaved honourably towards her. It would have been impossible for him to honour his duty to Morwenna and to me. Impossible.
If only I had known...all those years I resented his neglect.
All those lost years...
He searched her face. ‘I deceived you. You cannot forgive me.’
‘I didn’t say that.’ When he shifted closer, she held up her hand to keep him at bay. ‘Although I confess it is hard. I can see you did your best for Morwenna. You treated her with honour, by seeing she was safe. No convent would have taken her in with whispers of witchcraft hanging about her.’
‘Morwenna was not fit to look after herself.’
‘So she remained here, and one of your knights acted as her guardian.’
‘Exactly. Sir Arthur Ferrer—you have yet to meet him—was invaluable. As was Solène. They kept me informed as to Morwenna’s well-being. It was painful to visit, and latterly, when my presence began to distress her, I remained away. As a courtesy I gave her the run of Ravenshold. As long as she did herself no harm, I told Arthur to allow her complete authority within the castle.’
‘And Morwenna let it fall into ruin.’
‘As you see.’ He smiled sadly. ‘It was a blessing I put the lands in Arthur’s charge, they are in good order.’
Isobel was beginning to see daylight. Morwenna ha
d not shown any interest in the castle’s upkeep, and Lucien had stayed away. The castle’s dereliction was not due to Lucien’s negligence or his incompetence as an overlord. It looks as though I have misjudged him.
‘Lucien, forgive me if this is painful, but how did she die?’
A pulse beat in his cheek, just below the scar. ‘She drowned in the moat.’
‘She drowned! Lucien, I am so sorry.’ Impulsively, she squeezed his arm. The moat was outside the bailey walls. So... ‘Morwenna must have found a reason to leave the castle.’
‘You are astute. I have been wondering about that too. After the attack on her, she rarely set foot past the gatehouse.’ His chest heaved. ‘Yet the day she died, something made her go outside. Solène has suggested she went to gather herbs. She used to do that often before the villagers turned against her.’
‘Did it happen in daylight? Surely someone saw something? A guard? A villager?’
‘We can find no witnesses, no one will admit to seeing a thing. Sir Arthur made enquiries. He left no stone unturned and he found nothing. Sir Gawain and I have done no better. Personally, I am inclined to believe Solène has the right of it. Morwenna went out to gather herbs. I suspect we shall never know the full truth.’
Isobel glanced thoughtfully at the reliquary concealed beneath the red cloth. It made no sense to find it in Morwenna’s workroom, the theft had happened after her death. Thank the Lord, there could be no possible link between Morwenna and the thief. Lucien had had enough to concern him without the added worry that his dead wife might have been colluding with thieves.
Although someone in Ravenshold had to be involved. Who? Sir Raoul was out of the question. As was Sir Gawain. And Solène had struck her as an honest woman...
Carol Townend Page 20
