Lady Isobel's Champion (14 page)

‘Joris will be here in four hours,’ he said. ‘Is that long enough?’

‘Yes.’ A small hand emerged from the blanket and touched his. ‘Thank you, Lucien.’

Somehow, he extricated his hand from hers. He made his way out of the bedchamber, across the solar, and down the winding stairs. It seemed a long way to the Great Hall.

* * *

At first, Isobel was energised by Lucien’s change of heart. As she washed and dressed, her heart was singing.

He trusts me!
He was ready to allow her to move into his castle. This was her chance to show him that she could be a help and not a hindrance, and as long as she didn’t interfere in military business, she was confident she would win his approval. Her kitchens would rival those of Countess Marie, and her guest chambers—well, perhaps they might not match this apartment—but she would transform Ravenshold. The bedchambers would be warm and welcoming...

The morning passed in a dizzy whirl.

‘Elise, first we shall pack my gowns and veils in that painted chest.’

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘After that, I should like you to enquire as to the whereabouts of Countess Marie. I must thank her for her hospitality.’

‘Yes, my lady.’

Elise dug into her clothes-coffer to make room for some gowns and Isobel went to put the brooch in her jewel casket. It was too good to wear today. She caught sight of the sachet of herbs at the bottom and it was as though a shadow fell over her. She had been deceiving Lucien, and whilst she had stopped taking the herbs, her conscience pricked her. In procuring them without his agreement, she had done him great wrong. Lucien had married her to beget an heir. Naturally, he wanted her dowry too but, setting that aside, he wanted a son.

Noblemen need sons
.
I was not ready to give him one. I will try though, I really will try...

The old fears weighed heavy on her heart. Lucien was sharing her bed because of his need for an heir. It was true that he took pains to ensure that the act of love was as pleasurable for her as she hoped it was for him, but that did not mean he felt affection for her. And much as she was willing to try for a child, she knew she was not ready for childbirth. She might not manage to conceive, and if she did, she might die as her mother had done.

Lucien has a mistress.
The thought came out of nowhere. Since their marriage Isobel had tried not to dwell on Lucien’s mistress. Her husband had bedazzled her with charm; he had bedazzled her with his body. She glanced at the rose-silk pouch. He had bedazzled her with his gift too, divining that she needed to be wooed after the years of neglect.

She went still. Or was the brooch a bribe—a bribe to make her forget about his mistress?
How does one forget something like that?

‘Count Lucien has a mistress,’ she muttered, closing the jewel box. She was reticent about mentioning this again to Elise, but the words slipped out.

Elise turned questioning eyes on her. ‘My lady?’

Her throat was tight. ‘At Ravenshold. My lord has a
belle amie
.’

Elise scooped an armful of gowns and veils from the pegs on the wall and carried them to the bed. ‘This upsets you, my lady?’ Her voice was matter of fact, as she began smoothing out gowns. Her eyes were sharp. Watchful. ‘Many wives would consider that a relief. If Count Lucien has a woman nearby he will not be disturbing you so often. There will be less chance of you becoming great with child.’

It would disturb me far more if Lucien did not disturb me!

Isobel’s throat worked. She hadn’t told Elise that she had changed her mind about wanting to conceive. To hide her confusion, she picked up a veil and folded it into a neat square. Her fear of childbirth had dominated her for as long as she could remember, and Elise knew it. If she confessed that she had changed her mind, Elise would think her quite mad. She must turn the subject.

‘Elise, before we leave Troyes, we mustn’t forget to visit the Abbey. I need to see whether Girande has recovered.’

Elise froze. ‘And if she has?’

‘She will come with us to Ravenshold.’

Elise’s mouth set in sullen lines. ‘You will have no further need of me. Are you thinking to dismiss me?’

‘I won’t dismiss you.’

‘You don’t need two maids, my lady.’

‘That is true, but by all accounts there is plenty to do at Ravenshold. It has been a masculine domain for too long.’
Apart from Lucien’s mistress.
Isobel lightened her tone. ‘There are bound to be tasks that suit your talents. At the apothecary’s I noticed how knowledgeable you are about herbs. I would be pleased to have your help in planning an herb garden.’

‘Just mind you don’t leave me at the Abbey gates. I would hate to be dependent on convent charity.’

Isobel smiled. ‘Elise, there is no need to worry. If you wish to continue in my service, I shall ensure it.’

Elise’s eyes filled. ‘Bless you, my lady.’

Chapter Thirteen

T
he sun was falling into the west in a coppery blaze when Isobel and her party clattered into Ravenshold bailey. Isobel’s maid, Girande, had recovered enough to accompany them, and the three women—Elise rode with them—were surrounded by an escort large enough to do honour to a queen. Half the men were Viscount Gautier’s, the other half answered to Lucien.

Isobel didn’t know what to expect at Ravenshold. Disorder, certainly. Lucien had been frank about the run-down state of the place. Disorder didn’t frighten her; she would welcome the chance to show her colours
. I can set his castle to rights.
But would she have to deal with a mistress too? She was less certain how she would handle a mistress
. He told me there was no mistress...

Russet-coloured leaves fluttered across the yard like butterflies—a great drift of them hugged the base of the keep. At first glance, the buildings running along the bailey walls didn’t look too ramshackle, although a low, thatched one had an alarming dip in the roof-ridge. The stables. Smoke was curling through the roof of a cookhouse. But it was the two round towers that dominated. Isobel was craning her neck to study them when there was movement in the stable doorway. Lucien.

Face lighting when he saw her, he strode across, brushing hay from his tunic and chausses. ‘Isobel, you must see this.’ He reached up to help her dismount.

Isobel put her hands on his shoulders. Lucien’s tunic was threadbare and dirty—in several places it was ripped. She widened her eyes, this was the first time she had seen him look anything other than knightly. ‘You have straw in your hair, my lord.’

Blue eyes met hers, they were shining with pleasure. ‘New foal. Couldn’t resist helping with the birth. Come and see.’

His delight was catching. Shaking her head at his clothes—he looked like a groom rather than a count—Isobel allowed him to draw her into the stables. The foal, a beautiful chestnut, was sitting in the straw in the last stall, watched over by her mother. A pair of large, liquid eyes turned their way.

‘What a sweetheart,’ Isobel breathed. ‘Was it an easy birth?’

‘It seemed so.’

If only women gave birth as easily as animals
.

As Lucien smiled down at the foal, he wove his fingers with hers. Isobel’s heart clenched. The way he habitually entwined his fingers with hers was most endearing. But she should not read too much into it; at best it was an ambiguous gesture. She would love to think that the gift he had given her signalled that she was more to him than a route to the lands of Turenne, but she had to be realistic. She was just another prize to add to his collection. She stared for a moment at their linked hands, an ache in her breast. For many people such a gesture might convey affection, but in their case it symbolised possession.

He believes me to be heiress to my father’s lands. And so I am, unless Angelina gives Father a boy. I should tell him. I must warn him about the coming baby...

The words simply would not come.

The foal had him entranced. Covertly, she studied his profile. She had noticed before that his entire face was transformed when he smiled. He looked young and carefree. Devastatingly attractive. Was this a side of him that he showed to his mistress?

His mistress. Isobel managed to return his smile. Surely a man so enchanted by the birth of a foal, would not force his wife to endure the presence of a
belle amie
at Ravenshold? Had the woman been dismissed? Or had he found a cottage for her in that village they passed on the road?

His smile stabbed at Isobel’s heart. ‘Come, my lady, it is time to show you your new home.’ His voice became dry. ‘As you shall see, the work is likely to keep us busy until well after Christmas.’

* * *

As they sat at the table waiting for their supper, Isobel paused to reflect wryly on the truth of his words. In its present state, the hall at Ravenshold was a far cry from the Great Hall in Count Henry’s palace. All afternoon, Isobel had been trying not to make comparisons, but it was a hard task. Evidence of poor stewardship and neglect was there at every turn.

Above them, Lucien’s standard sagged in the rafters, so smoke-blackened that it was impossible to tell that it must once have been blue; the raven was lost in grime. The hall fire hissed like a thousand snakes, and it smoked. Unfortunately it didn’t smoke badly enough to drive out the smells. Must. Decay. Beneath their feet, the rushes had not been renewed. Surreptitiously, Isobel toed them with her shoe. Her nose wrinkled. What a filthy, squalid place.

‘Isobel? What’s amiss?’

She flushed—she had been trying to conceal the depth of her distaste. ‘The rushes,’ she murmured. ‘There are bones in the rushes.’

‘Quite likely.’ Lucien shrugged.

Her husband was a mystery, a riddle she couldn’t work out. Didn’t he care that Ravenshold was practically derelict? He had plenty of revenues, so what could she think but that he had been neglectful? Her tourney champion was, it seemed, an irresponsible and feckless overlord. She took a deep breath. Like all knights, Lucien loved his horses, so she would start by mentioning the stables.

‘My lord,’ she spoke softly, ‘you did mention that Ravenshold was in some disrepair, but I must confess I am shocked.’

Blue eyes looked steadily at her. ‘I warned you.’

‘So you did. You will have noticed how the timbers in the stable roof have gone. It needs a complete rebuild.’

‘I am aware of that. We have no seasoned wood. Some half-wit has been using it as fuel. I have it in hand.’

‘Oh?’

‘Count Henry has offered some seasoned timber, it’s arriving tomorrow.’ Lucien glowered in the direction of the door that led out to the cookhouse. ‘Where the devil is our meat? The sergeant knows you are dining here tonight.’

Even as he spoke the door opened, and Isobel heard the sergeant shouting. She exchanged glances with Lucien and the door closed again. No one came in.

Isobel slid the bread platter towards Lucien. Her visit to the kitchen had been most enlightening, though with Lucien in a hurry to show her everything, she had done little more than be introduced to the cook, who was, in reality, one of Lucien’s sergeants. Loath to issue orders until she had taken the man’s measure, she had said little. She needed to know she had Lucien’s full backing first.

Lucien ate three pieces of bread. The fire hissed and smoked. Lucien drummed his fingers on the table and swore under his breath. Isobel was on the point of going to investigate when the cookhouse door swung wide and a boy—she could swear she had seen him in the stables earlier—came in.

‘Chicken,’ she said, brightly, as a roast chicken slid precariously on its platter before being thumped on to the table in front of them. Yes, the boy had definitely been recruited from the stables; he brought with him a distinct whiff of horse. ‘How lovely.’

‘At last, I’m starved.’ Lucien took up his knife and soon several pieces of breast were neatly arranged on their trencher. Very neatly. He was such a mystery.

An image of Lucien, colours flying as he cantered the length of the tourney field on his immaculately caparisoned charger, flashed through Isobel’s brain. Except for when he was playing midwife to one of his mares, he was so fastidious in his person. Yet Ravenshold was falling into ruin...

Against the odds, the chicken looked perfect. It smelt delicious—particularly once the stable boy had retreated, taking the stink of horse with him. Isobel could smell onions and thyme. Her mood lifted. Lucien’s sergeant could cook. This was good, wholesome fare and her mouth was watering.

Lucien moved the best piece towards her.

‘My thanks. Lucien?’ She cleared her throat. ‘Do you give me full authority in the domestic sphere?’

He swallowed, and for a moment she thought he was not going to reply. When he finally spoke, his voice was clipped, and his eyes guarded. ‘You are my countess. Do as you will.’

* * *

Lucien left Ravenshold at dawn. Lying in a half-slumber while he pulled on his clothes, Isobel caught the words, ‘Count Henry...Guardians...patrols...’ before tumbling back into sleep.

When she next awoke, she lay in bed, thinking. It had been a relief to discover that Lucien’s bedchamber had a fireplace. It was also clean, even if the furnishings were simple. Lucien’s travelling chest sat next to hers. It was battered and scratched and had seen much service.
I shall have it repainted.
The blankets on the bed were perfectly serviceable, but Isobel had found one or two moth holes.
Those will have to be darned.
She was already planning other improvements. A blue coverlet. New linen for the sheets...

There was so much to be done. Today, she was going to comb through the castle from rooftop to cellar. She pushed aside the thought that she might find traces of Lucien’s mistress; she was simply sizing up the task in hand. If she could restore Ravenshold to its former glory, Lucien would come to value her for something other than her lands. And if, in the meantime, she became pregnant, he also would value her for the heir she would give him. She didn’t have long. Because soon, God help her, she would have no choice but to tell him that Angelina was with child.

* * *

Girande was fully recovered and eager to resume her position as Isobel’s personal maid. This left Elise with nothing to occupy her, so Isobel took her with her as she did the rounds of the castle. They began in the bailey.

‘Where first, my lady?’ Elise asked.

The sky was clear. Elise was smiling, the sullen fearful girl of the day before had vanished. Isobel wondered if she had imagined her.

‘You seem happy,’ Isobel said.

‘Oh, my lady, I am. I had no wish to throw myself on the mercy of the sisters.’

Isobel was pleased to have been able to help. She had not found life easy as she waited for Lucien to claim her, but she had always had her status. The nuns would never have starved her. Isobel suspected that there had been periods in Elise’s life when she had not known where her next crust would come from.

‘I am hopeful we shall become friends,’ Isobel said. ‘And one day, you might tell me how you came to find yourself at the Abbey.’

Elise’s smile faltered. ‘Yes, my lady.’

‘This morning, we shall simply learn the lie of the land. Whilst we are doing that, I am hopeful of finding something that interests you. If not, there is bound to be plenty of needlework in a castle this size. Let’s start on the battlements—it strikes me we shall see the layout best from there.’

They crossed the bailey, and were passing under the shadow of one of the towers when a strong-limbed young man ran up. He was one of the knights Lucien had introduced the previous night. He had wavy hair the colour of ripe wheat and soulful brown eyes.

‘Good morning, Lady Isobel.’

‘Good morning, Sir...Gawain, is it not?’

‘Aye, my lady, Gawain Steward.’ He gave them both a little bow. Elise blushed. ‘Count Lucien bid me to say that should you have any questions, you should apply to me. Although I must warn you, I have not been long at Ravenshold and the role of steward is new to me. I may not have all the answers.’

Isobel smiled at him. ‘We are going to inspect the battlements, sir, and then we intend to explore.’

‘If I may, I should be honoured to guide you,’ Sir Gawain said.

‘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.’