Lady Isobel's Champion (11 page)

And she imagined she was hunting a thief?

Elise frowned at Isobel. Across the lists, Lucien watched her
lips move.

* * *

‘My lady, we ought to leave,’ Elise said for the tenth
time.

‘I can’t see him, do you think he’s changed his mind about
coming?’

‘Thieves are not known for their reliability, my lady.’

Isobel flung Elise a look of exasperation. ‘The man is here, I
know it; we just have to find him. I gave the potboy in the Black Boar a handful
of silver and he swore the thief would be here. That boy would have betrayed his
mother for less.’ She huffed out a breath. ‘Our luck might change if we work our
way round to the other side of the lists. The thief will be desperate to get the
relic off his hands, and where better to find a buyer? Half the nobility of
Champagne is here. Let’s look nearer the pavilions.’

Elise linked arms with her, as though to pin her in place.
‘It’s not safe. My lady, it’s bad enough that you have flouted Count Lucien’s
wishes, but to be chasing after a thief—I know you have been bored and restless
at the Abbey, but this—it’s sheer folly!’ She paused, eyes clouded with concern.
‘We ought to go back to the palace. If Count Lucien sees you...’

Isobel stiffened. ‘Count Lucien cannot command my every
move.’

‘Can he not? He might strike you—’

‘Strike me?’ Isobel gave Elise a startled look. ‘Why on earth
should you think that?’

Elise gave her an odd look. ‘How much do you know about him, my
lady? Count Lucien is a warrior, trained to get his way by force of arms. Now
you are married, he is within his rights to punish you. Many men hit their
wives.’

‘This is nonsense, Elise. I am confident Count Lucien will do
me no harm.’

‘Are you?’

Isobel held down a flare of irritation. ‘Yes, I am.’ With a
sigh, she caught Elise’s hand and ducked back into the crowd. Too many people
were blocking her view, she was determined to work her way round to the red
pavilions. ‘Have you seen his lordship?’

‘Not yet.’

Since Lucien’s device was a black raven on a blue field it
followed that the blue pavilions would be his. Isobel would leave those till
last. Her gaze wandered back to the knights gathered under Lucien’s colours. The
wind was in the wrong direction, and the raven on his standard was lost in the
folds of the cloth. She couldn’t see him. Ah! There he was in the middle of the
field, next to Sir Raoul. She would give that area a wide berth...

She pointed. ‘He’s over there.’

‘Look the other way, my lady! He’ll see you!’

‘Elise, please be calm. No one has seen us, we were only at the
rope for a moment.’ She lightened her tone. ‘Just think how pleased the nuns
will be when the relic is returned.’

‘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

J
oris 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.

Footsteps approached. Heavy, booted footsteps. Not Elise. Dropping the shoe, Isobel came to her feet. She was facing the door as Lucien walked in.

Lucien bowed. He was wearing a black tunic, liberally embroidered with gold about the neck and cuffs. The tourney champion of earlier had been transformed into the courtier—a stern-faced courtier with an intriguing scar on his temple. He was tapping a beribboned scroll against his thigh.

‘I would not have disturbed you so late, my lady, but a letter has arrived from Turenne, and I thought you would like to receive it.’ Looking very formal, he held out the scroll. ‘Can you read, or do you need help?’

‘I can read.’ Isobel took the scroll, the seal was unbroken. ‘You have not opened it?’

‘Since it is from your family, I thought you should be the first to look at it.’

‘Thank you.’ Isobel stared at him for a moment, his manner was distant, but she could not help but be warmed by his consideration. Many husbands, she knew, would think nothing of reading their wives’ correspondence. She broke the seal. The letter had been written by a scribe; she glanced at the bottom to see who had sent it.

‘It is from your father?’

‘No, it’s from my stepmother, Angelina.’

She began to read:

My dear Isobel,

I send you greetings and blessings, and pray that you are in good health. Your father has instructed me to write to you so that you may share in our great news. We are happy to tell you that I am with child.

God willing, the baby will be born in January—

Isobel found herself staring at the word January.
January.
Angelina was to have a baby in January!

These tidings were bittersweet. For as long as Isobel could remember, she had longed for more family. She had always wanted a brother or sister—partly to ease her mother’s distress, and partly for herself. Her years at the convent had been marked by the making and losing of friends, as other girls first arrived at St Foye’s, and then returned to the world to be married. Isobel had yearned for someone with whom she might feel a particular bond, a bond that would last.

If Angelina comes safely to term, I shall have more family!

Angelina was younger than her mother. Stronger. There was every reason to hope that she might be swiftly and safely delivered of her child. In January.

Her eyes prickled.

‘Isobel?’ Lucien touched her arm. ‘Is it ill news? You look very pale.’

A brief, bright flash of joy ran through her.
I am to have a brother or sister!

‘Isobel?’

‘One moment, my lord, I have not finished.’ Quickly, she read the rest...

Isobel, you should also know that a cloud remains over Turenne on account of your father’s continuing poor health. He is weak and finds breathing difficult. I have asked the villagers to pray for him, and beg that you do the same. I am holding to the hope that our good news will lift his spirits and strengthen him.