Lady Isobel's Champion (18 page)

‘My lord, if you will excuse me, I should like to go to the chapel.’

‘You wish to pray for your father. Allow me to accompany you.’

‘That is kind, my lord, but I would prefer to pray on my own.’

Lucien kept pace with her until she reached the foot of the tower stair. ‘Isobel, a moment.’

‘My lord?’

‘You realise this will alter our plans for Christmas?’

The chilly fingers inched along Isobel’s back. She knew what he was about to say, and she had no wish to hear it. ‘Will it?’

He made an impatient movement. ‘Of course. We must visit Turenne to lay claim to your lands.’

No! If we go to Turenne, you will see that my stepmother is pregnant. You will realise that I may be disinherited...

That moment must be delayed as long as possible. Lucien had remained married to Morwenna because she had been unable to take care of herself. Isobel’s circumstances were entirely different—Lucien would be able to annul his marriage to her with a clear conscience. No matter that the marriage agreement had been drawn up between her father and his, if he wanted to divorce her, he could. Powerful men usually got their way.

My marriage is a house built on sand.
She did not mind about her inheritance for herself, but Lucien surely would. The only way to make sure of him was to give him his heir. She was vaguely aware of Lucien’s voice washing over her.

‘Isobel, I shall send Joris to Count Henry with a message. Someone else can train up the Guardian Knights; someone else can organise the Twelfth Night Joust.’

It was ironic that what she had feared most when she married him—giving birth—had become what she most longed for. If she gave Lucien a son, her marriage would be safe, whether or not she was an heiress. She could not rely on love, if she waited until she had won his love, she might be waiting until doomsday. For Lucien love was not just a feeling—Morwenna had taught him that. Morwenna had taught him that love was a decision
. Lucien does have feelings for me. When his desire is strong so are his feelings—but he mistrusts them
.

He had never said out loud that he felt anything for her other than desire. At the very least, Isobel had been hoping for affection from him, but even that would not be enough to banish the possibility of her being set aside as unsuitable.

Lucien mistrusts emotions
. When listening to Bernez at their wedding feast, he had muttered something about the transitory nature of feelings. He had said that if love exists—
if
love exists—it was not a feeling, it was a decision. A decision. How cold that sounded. How mercenary. How convenient.

Lucien understood lust, and he understood marriage alliances made to benefit both parties.
The only way I can secure him is to give him his heir
.
It is too soon to go to Turenne. I have to conceive before he sees Angelina.

Stepping up to him, she placed her hand on his arm. Surprise flared in his eyes, she was not in the habit of making public gestures of affection and he was uncertain how to respond. His gaze dropped briefly to her lips. He cleared his throat and a strong arm wound about her waist.

‘My lord, your tenants will be sorely disappointed if we leave Ravenshold before Christmas.’

‘They will?’

He opened his mouth to say more, but Isobel intervened. ‘I need time, my lord,’ she said quietly. ‘Time to absorb this loss. Surely we can discuss our plans in the morning?’

Lucien’s fingers moved in a small caress. ‘As you wish.’

Isobel did need time, and not just to grieve for her father. She needed time to prove to her husband that love was more than a decision made for cold-blooded political purposes, love was a feeling too. It was glorious, enchanting, overpowering—it would never die. She loved him.

She loved him in the cool, calculating way she had always tried to love him—as the man chosen for her by her father. But that was not the only way in which she loved him. She loved him in the poetic way too, in the pretty, mind-muddling way of the poets. Such love was
not
ephemeral. It was not untrustworthy.

It would be her quest to teach Lucien about love in all its guises. Finding out about Morwenna explained so much. Morwenna had all but ruined him. Isobel’s task would have been hard enough without Angelina being pregnant.

Father’s child will be born soon.
She felt bad about misleading Lucien, but it would not be for long. She would not fail.

Lucien’s mouth softened as he looked at her. He raised her hand to his lips—a courtly gesture that squeezed her heart. ‘If you wish to celebrate Christmas here, I expect we could delay our visit to Turenne. I take it your father has a good steward?’

‘The best.’
He is concerned for my lands
.
The wastrel I at one time imagined I had married would not have been concerned. He is a diligent, responsible man.

‘Very well. We shall wait before planning our journey.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’ Picking up her skirts she started up the spiralling stairs. She had not actually lied about Angelina being with child, but she felt quite sick. And it was painfully clear that Lucien’s main concern was to secure her lands.

* * *

In the Great Hall later that evening, Lucien found himself sitting in his high-backed chair, breaking bread with Sir Raoul and Sir Gawain. ‘Where is my wife?’

‘The Countess is in the chapel, I believe,’ Gawain said.

Lucien tossed down his bread. ‘She can’t
still
be in the chapel?’

Gawain leaned across the table to spear a slice of pork from the platter and grunted. ‘Father Thomas is holding some sort of vigil for Viscount Gautier.’

‘I should imagine Lady Isobel feels badly that she missed her father’s funeral,’ Raoul said. ‘The rites will do her good.’

Lucien looked at the empty space beside him and pushed back his chair. ‘Did she eat at noon-tide?’

‘I couldn’t say.’ Raoul shrugged. ‘I was with you all afternoon.’

‘Hell.’ Stomach cramping with concern, Lucien shoved back his chair. ‘Girande?’

‘Count Lucien?’

‘Put bread, meat and wine for two on a tray and take it to my bedchamber, will you?’

‘At once, my lord.’

* * *

The chapel in Ravenshold was in the west tower, on the floor below their bedchamber. As Lucien rounded the last turn in the stairs, the priest’s chanting floated out to meet him. Isobel was standing in front of Father Thomas, blue gown bright against the dark priestly robes. Her palms were clasped at her breast, her head was bent. She looked pale, and her skin had a translucent quality Lucien had not seen before, like white marble. She looked like a statue of the Madonna. A Madonna who was swaying on her feet. Her eyes were shadowed—she had been crying.

She has been here too long.

‘Isobel?’ Lucien spoke softly. The candles on the altar were reflected in her eyes, eyes which held a world of sorrow.

‘My lord?’

Pain shaped her posture—she was holding herself with a kind of dogged stiffness. Lucien had not seen that in her before either. He had no remedy against grief like this. A wave of regret washed over him, rarely had he felt so useless.

‘Is your ceremony almost finished?’ he asked.

She shook her head. In the fitful light of the candles her lips were bloodless. ‘Father Thomas has promised to keep vigil with me all night.’

‘All night?’ Covering her clasped hands, he peeled them apart and interlaced his fingers with hers. She was ice-cold. ‘Isobel, you will make yourself ill.’

‘The loss of one night’s sleep cannot do much harm.’

Father Thomas was ignoring them—his chanting flowed on unabated. It was one of the psalms.
‘Put not your trust in princes
,
nor in any child of man: for there is no help in them
.
’
The verses of the psalm were uttered so softly there was no echo; the words simply fell into the mournful quiet and vanished, like stones dropped into a well.

‘Isobel, you must eat,’ Lucien said.

She bit her lip. ‘I broke my fast this morning.’

‘...then all his thoughts should perish,’
intoned the priest.

‘Have you eaten since then?’

She stared at the cross on the altar, lips moving as she joined in the psalm.
‘Blessed is he—’

Lucien shifted. ‘Isobel? Did you eat at noon?’

‘Truly, my lord, I am sure—’

‘You need to eat. You have been here long enough.’ He raised his voice. ‘Father Thomas?’

‘
Who made heaven and
...my lord?’

‘The Countess needs to retire. Is the vigil almost over?’

‘My lord, we have run through the office several times already. I can finish this round on my own, if you wish.’

‘Thank you, Father. That would be kind.’

Lucien placed Isobel’s cold fingers on his arm. ‘Come, Isobel, you must eat. And then you must rest.’

Chapter Seventeen

O
n the morning of the shortest day—it was the Winter solstice—Isobel woke alone under the blue coverlet. Wanting to make the most of what little light there was, Lucien had gone out on patrol.

Grief hung over her, like a pall. It was hard to accept that her gruff, bluff father was dead, and that his harsh voice would never again call her name. She must accept it.

She tugged the coverlet more firmly about her. Guilt was an uncomfortable bedfellow. She was deceiving Lucien, she should tell him that Father’s widow was with child. Lucien had neglected her for years—he was himself no stranger to deception and she had harboured some resentment against him. No longer. Her innards felt as though they were in knots because she had not told him about Angelina. Why? She was merely paying him back in his own coin, she shouldn’t feel this bad.

When Isobel had arrived in Champagne, she had not expected the Comte d’Aveyron to be so personable. And she wasn’t simply thinking about his appearance; although who wouldn’t want to be married to a strong, long-limbed knight with thick glossy hair, a chiselled bone structure, and intelligent blue eyes? She had expected scars, and the one on Lucien’s face was prominent, but without it—well, he would simply be too beautiful. That scar showed his human side, Lucien had won it protecting Morwenna.

It was a side that Isobel had not thought to look for whilst nursing her anger at the endless delays forced upon her. Nine years! Since arriving in Troyes, Lucien’s unexpected thoughtfulness had, she supposed, disarmed her. Thoughtfulness which had begun with him ensuring her removal to Count Henry’s palace when he had realised how she disliked lodging at the Abbey. He had chastised her for her disobedience over the tourney, but that hadn’t stopped him giving her that brooch. Of course, he had given her the brooch to keep her sweet. He wanted her for her lands. Nevertheless...

Last night he had removed her from the chapel and had insisted that she ate.

Lucien looks after me because I am valuable to him. I bring him Turenne.
Lucien might have a human side, but she must never forget there was determination as well as intelligence in those blue eyes. His gaze was that of a man who had fought—and won—many battles. A champion. It was hard to remember that in a sense, she was just another trophy. He did not love her.

The noise of hoofbeats filtered through the lancet, and a rook cawed. Someone tapped on the door.

‘Come in.’

Elise stepped in with a jug of steaming water. ‘Good morning, my lady. May I attend you?’

‘Of course. Where’s Girande?’

‘She’s feeling queasy again, my lady.’

‘I am sorry to hear it.’ Isobel padded across to the ewer, while Elise straightened the bed.

‘My lady, I was sorry to hear of your father’s death. Please accept my sympathies.’

Isobel’s eyes prickled. ‘Thank you, Elise.’ She reached for a washcloth.

‘Which gown will you wear today?’

‘The grey with the gold-and-red edging,’ Isobel said quietly. Gold and red were her father’s colours. And Lucien’s too, if Angelina was carrying a daughter. But if Angelina was carrying a son...

Saints preserve me, I shall not lose him
.

‘My lady?’

Isobel started. Elise had been speaking and she had not noticed. ‘My apologies, Elise, I missed what you said.’

‘You know, don’t you?’ Elise said, holding out a drying cloth.

‘Know what?’

‘About Morwenna, Count Lucien’s first wife.’

Every muscle in Isobel’s body went taut as a bowstring. ‘You know about Morwenna?’
Surely the marriage was kept secret?

Chewing her lip, Elise took the drying cloth from her. ‘I have known about it for some time, my lady. There were...rumours, you understand.’

‘Yet you said nothing to me.’ A chill of realisation shot through her.
Elise knew about Morwenna when she introduced herself to me at the Abbey!

Unhappily, Elise twisted the cloth. ‘I could not. I dare not. My lady, I lied about Girande being sick this morning. I asked her if I could tend to you because I wanted to warn you. I have come to like you...to respect you.’

Isobel’s heart turned to lead.

‘My lady, take care with Count Lucien, do not anger him. I fear for you.’

Isobel stared. ‘You think Count Lucien would harm me?’

‘My lady, Morwenna was kept prisoner.’ Elise spoke in a rush, her face was red. ‘She was not allowed out, she—’

‘You are mistaken. Elise, you have it all wrong.’

Elise’s eyes were glassy with tears. ‘My lady, please take care, you are in grave danger—’

‘Nonsense!’ It went completely against the grain to believe that Lucien would harm her. Last night he had winkled her out of the chapel, he had fed her and watered her and put her to bed. He had held her in his arms, allowing her to grieve while he had stroked her hair. He had made no demands. If he were any other man she might call his behaviour loving. Lucien? Hurt her? No.

To be sure, he would hurt her if he were to annul their marriage, but Elise was not referring to that kind of hurt.
I trust him.
Lucien had locked Morwenna up for her own good. That was the truth. Grief might have tangled her thoughts, but none the less, she was clear on one point. Lucien would never hurt her. Not physically.

‘My lord would never knowingly hurt a woman.’

A tear glistened on Elise’s cheek. ‘I wish I could believe it.’

‘Elise!’

Isobel drew breath to say more, but Elise rushed on. ‘My lady, Count Lucien denied Morwenna her freedom. He neglected her for years. And then, when his spy told him that you had grown into a beauty, he had her murdered. My lady, you must take care, he—’

‘Elise, that’s enough! This talk of spies and murder is madness. My lord...you simply do not understand.’ Isobel had no intention of revealing to Elise what Lucien had told her in confidence. She fixed her with a look. ‘I thank you for your interest, but you overreach yourself when you speak to me in this manner.’

Elise made a gulping sound, dropped the linen cloth, and stumbled from the bedchamber. The door banged, and the latch clicked into place.

Lucien—a murderer? The idea was preposterous.

Absently, Isobel bent to retrieve the cloth. Elise had let what she had seen in the east tower eat away at her.
That tower must be cleared. Today.

She dragged the grey gown over her head, almost thankful for Elise’s extraordinary outburst. Somehow, it had distracted her. It was unthinkable that Lucien would harm a woman. By coming here this morning, and by speaking her mind, Elise had clarified Isobel’s thoughts.

Lucien was a good man. He could scarcely be more different from the carefree tourney champion she had envisaged. And that was something for which she could only be grateful. The real Lucien was worth fighting for.

Secondly, the sooner that festering chamber at the top of the east tower was cleared, the better for everyone.

* * *

It happened towards the end of Christmastide, when Twelfth Night was almost upon them. Lucien had been patrolling the roads around Troyes every day, to no avail. His quarry seemed to have gone to earth.

Finally, his luck turned. He had just trotted through the Madeleine Gate at the head of his
conroi
when something in the moat caught his eye. The moat encircling Troyes was a dry one—a deep dip in front of the city walls—and the townsfolk were in the habit of using it as a midden. Refuse of all sorts was flung into it—rotting vegetable peelings, cooked animal bones. And worse.

Reining in, Lucien found himself staring at a bundle of brown rags and what looked like a tangle of greasy brown hair. He felt himself go still. Somewhere a cock was crowing.

‘Joris, search the moat.’

‘Not the moat, my lord.’ Joris pulled a face. ‘I did that yesterday.’

‘The moat, Joris. I have a feeling you were less than thorough. Sergeant, you go with him.’

‘Yes,
mon seigneur
,’ the sergeant said, dismounting smartly.

Joris sent him a pleading look. ‘It stinks down there.’

‘Thank God it’s not summer then, it’s worse in summer. Start over there.’ Lucien pointed towards the pile of brown rags. ‘You are my squire, I assume it is your ambition to become a knight?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘However distasteful the task, a knight cannot afford to be less than thorough. Get off that horse and into the ditch.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

Nose wrinkling, Joris obeyed. Lucien watched him slither into the moat. He didn’t have long to wait. When Joris next looked towards him, his face was white as bone.

‘My lord! Count Lucien! There’s a b-body. It...he...’ the young voice cracked ‘...he’s been murdered.’

Lucien had known who it was even before he had seen the face. It was the man who he had been hunting for nigh on two months. The man who had taken the relic and murdered Geoffrey; the man who he feared might come after Isobel. The body was battered; there had clearly been a fight. The thief’s face and knuckles were bruised, and there were marks about his neck. He’d been strangled. Lucien felt only relief.
Geoffrey’s murderer is no longer loose in Champagne. Isobel is safe.

* * *

Because of the body, Lucien left Troyes that evening later than planned.

Count Henry had to be informed of what they had found. Lucien had spoken to him, and suggested that the moat should be cleared weekly. He had also suggested that his former steward, Sir Arthur, should be promoted to captain of the Guardians.

That done, Lucien had sought out Geoffrey’s family. He had been planning to visit them in any case. The year had turned, and Lucien had wanted to reassure himself that Geoffrey’s mother and sister were surviving. It had been good to tell Nicola that whilst her son’s murderer had not faced Count Henry’s justice, justice of sorts had been done. He had given her more money, telling her that Geoffrey had earned it by his service at Ravenshold, and that he had only now discovered that more was due. He wanted to help. It was obvious Nicola struggled to put food on the table.

Lucien had been hoping to gain the trust of the girl, Clare. He was certain she knew about Geoffrey’s involvement with the dead man. Unfortunately, Clare was loyal to a fault, and would say not a word.

* * *

‘The mist is thickening, my lord.’ Joris’s saddle creaked as he leaned on the cantle to peer over his shoulder. ‘We might miss our way.’

They were heading back to Ravenshold. Strips of fog were weaving in and out of the trees, like wraiths in the gathering dark. Ghostly grey pools lay in the hollows.

‘Never fear, we shan’t lose the road,’ Lucien said. Joris was nervy, and understandably so. It wasn’t every day the boy found a body in a ditch.

‘Night falls too soon around the turn of the year,’ Joris added, shrinking into his hood.

Lucien grunted, he was thinking about the dead man. ‘He might have met his end in a tavern brawl,’ he muttered. ‘It’s a pity Clare was not more forthcoming about Geoffrey’s involvement.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

Lucien swore under his breath. Whatever Geoffrey had done, it could not have warranted his death.

Joris’s teeth were chattering, and his face had taken a blue tinge. The dark was closing in on them. ‘We’ll be home soon, Joris.’

Tonight, Lucien would tell Isobel that his stint with the Guardian Knights was over. Count Henry had more than enough men, and with Sir Arthur as their captain, the roads and highways of Champagne would be secure. Hopefully, Isobel would be able to put the entire business out of her mind.

Isobel is waiting for me at Ravenshold.
Grinning to himself, unable to believe the way his heart lifted when he thought of her, Lucien heeled Demon into a trot. Joris shot him an enquiring look.

‘Don’t dawdle,’ Lucien said. ‘You were right about the mist, it is thickening.’

* * *

Lucien emerged from the stables into a courtyard so murky it might have been midnight. Above the circle of spluttering torches, there were no stars. The mist was crawling over the curtain walls. The cookhouse was shrouded in grey, and he could barely see the hall. As was his habit, he counted the lights up on the walkway. They glowed weakly tonight, two to the left of the gatehouse, two to the right, and...

A flash of scarlet caught his attention. A woman was on the walkway, and the scarlet—a cloak, he thought—was an extra flare of brightness in the mist and the dark. A red banner in the night.

A
scarlet
cloak? Lucien’s heart cramped. Morwenna had owned a cloak in just such a scarlet, it had been lined with squirrel. A light on the curtain wall wavered, dimmed by a finger of mist creeping in from the road. Clenching his jaw, Lucien found himself striding towards the steps. He began to climb.

It was quiet as death on the ramparts. He had stepped into another world. Somewhere out there lay the village. Lord, the mist was so thick, Lucien could scarcely see his own bailey. The silence was unearthly.

Pale light streamed from the stables and gatehouse. A candle shone briefly at the top of the west tower—Isobel or her maid must be in the bedchamber. Then the mist rolled around the tower and the light was gone. For the space of a heartbeat, Lucien was alone. There was mist. There was dark. And bone-numbing cold.

The sound when it came had hairs rising on the back of his neck. Singing.
Singing?
The woman was close. The walkway glistened with damp. Lucien lifted a torch from its bracket and followed the sound as a hound follows a scent. It was a love-song. Lucien wasn’t one for love-songs, but this one he knew. Morwenna had loved it. She had sung it for him a number of times in the days of their courtship. The voice on the walkway was an eerie echo of Morwenna’s. The woman was not in sight, but the similarity in sound chilled him to his core. That cloak, that voice, that song...

Morwenna!
Mon Dieu
, what witchery was this? Morwenna was dead, it could not be her. A cold dread had him in its grip. Lucien was reluctant to move forwards, reluctant to come face to face with...who?
Who is it?
Heat from the torch warmed his hand and face. And there it was again. Singing—soft and clear, each note sung true. It was a song from the south, and it was being sung exactly as Morwenna had sung it, with the same phrases, the same cadences, even the same plangency. It couldn’t be Morwenna, Morwenna had been laid to her rest. But that voice—that song—he was listening to her ghost.