your oath to wed me?’
It was as though Lucien had not heard her. That hard gaze shifted to the jug of wine, although she doubted that he saw it.
‘I need an heir.’
Isobel’s hand jerked. Wine slopped on to the table. An heir. He means a male heir, the one thing my mother could not give my father. The one thing Isobel was afraid she would not be able to give him. Lucien’s mouth, the mouth that had stirred such feelings in her, was set in a hard, uncompromising line. When Lucien put his mind to it, he would be relentless. What would happen to her if she failed him as her mother had failed her father? Two great fears twisted together in her mind: I may not be capable of giving him an heir. I may die in the attempt.
He reached for his wine, drank, and gave an eloquent shudder. ‘Mon Dieu, Isobel.’ He prised her cup out of her grasp and dragged her to her feet. ‘Don’t touch that pi—er, swill, else you’ll be joining your maid in the infirmary. We’re leaving.’
As they squeezed past the tables, the thief looked up. His lip curled and he reached for his dagger.
Isobel made a small sound of distress.
Shielding her with his body, Lucien urged her past the fire. ‘As I feared, he noticed you giving chase.’ He pushed a coin into the potboy’s waiting hands. ‘I shall escort you back to the Abbey.’
‘Thank you, my lord.’
Outside, Isobel heaved in a lungful of fresh air. Lucien took possession of her hand. He didn’t tuck it into his arm in the more formal manner; instead, he held it at his side, as though they were sweethearts. As he wove his fingers with hers, something knotted up inside her. It was very painful. Rather like longing for something one could never have. She was not this man’s sweetheart—he was marrying her to honour the arrangement his father had made. He wanted Turenne. He wanted an heir.
‘My lord?’ Blue eyes glanced her way, as they plunged into a side street. ‘Where is the Field of the Birds?’ The device on Lucien’s shield was a black raven, and the Counts of Aveyron had long been allies with the Counts of Champagne. It struck her that the tourney field must lie on Lucien’s land.
A pulse throbbed near his scar. ‘I hoped you hadn’t heard that.’
They were walking between two rows of houses, and the gutter at the side was full of turnip peelings. Isobel lifted her skirts clear before speaking again. ‘My lord, in the Abbey, you mentioned a tournament on the day after our wedding, I realise this must be the same one. Is the Field of the Birds part of your holding?’
‘Yes.’ His voice was dismissive. ‘In his day, my father was patron of tournaments held at the Field of the Birds. I have had little to do with them.’
It was a puzzling response given Lucien’s enthusiasm for tournaments and his success in the tourney field. And was it her imagination or was he avoiding her gaze? ‘Why ever not?’
‘Some years ago, I put my Champagne holding in the hands of a steward. He was running Ravenshold well enough. Until recently, I had no reason to visit.’
‘There were other tournaments, I suppose.’ She looked hopefully at him, but his face was closed. Unreceptive. ‘I have never been to a tournament, my lord. At Turenne, my father’s minstrel—’
His expression hardened. ‘Isobel, a tournament is more than pretty ladies handing out favours to handsome knights. A tournament is a war-game.’
‘Nevertheless, I should like to see one.’
‘I don’t advise you start at the Field of the Birds. I’ve heard it’s badly regulated these days.’
‘How so?’
‘Since my father’s time it has, so I hear, become … unruly. It will be messy, perhaps bloody. King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table it is not.’
Isobel looked uncertainly at him. There was a darkness in this man’s soul she could not account for. ‘My lord?’
‘Well, that is what you are expecting from a tournament, is it not? Deeds of valour. Quests.’ He spoke abruptly. ‘The tournament at the Field of the Birds is—well, it’s war. If you want to play at being Queen Guinevere, you should wait for the Twelfth Night joust at Troyes Castle. That should be more to your taste.’
Lucien’s tone disturbed her. He was trying to put her off going to the All Hallows Tourney, but he would not succeed. It was well known that the Kings of France and England had voiced their disapproval of tournaments, but a champion of Lucien’s status would not balk at the toughest of competitions. Was it possible that he was worried about her?
In truth, the Twelfth Night joust in Troyes sounded as though it would be much more to her taste. Unfortunately, the man who had stolen the relic was going to the All Hallows Tourney, Isobel would have to go too …
‘If you are concerned for me,’ she said softly, ‘you need not be. I can look after myself. My lord, are the tournaments held in the Field of the Birds very dangerous?’
‘So Sir Arthur—my steward—tells me. As I said, I have not attended one there in years.’
‘Will you be competing? I would really like to go.’
Lucien dropped her hand. ‘Isobel, I advise you to consider this discussion closed.’
‘You are taking part!’ She tipped her head back and met his gaze. ‘No champion worth his mettle could fail to relish the challenge of a real tournament. If the competition is fierce, the prize money will be good. Where is the Field of the Birds?’
Blue eyes seemed to bore right through her. ‘My lady, I see where you are heading and I will not have it. The wretch who took that relic will be looking out for you.’
‘He won’t see me. I will be discreet.’
Lucien snorted. ‘I doubt you know the meaning of the word. Isobel, I forbid you to attend. I won’t have time to watch out for you.’
‘But, my lord—’
‘Isobel, I do not wish you to attend. Do I make myself clear?’
Isobel heard obduracy in his voice, but she had met male obduracy before and knew what to do. She dealt with it in the way that she dealt with it when encountering it in her father. ‘Yes, my lord,’ she said, giving him a limpid look. ‘Perfectly clear.’
Sister Christine met her at the convent gate. ‘Lady Isobel, what were you thinking, tearing out into the town like that?’
With a bow and a thin smile, Lucien turned on his heel. The gate clanged shut and he was lost to sight. I hope he sends for me soon. Isobel had seen enough of the inside of a convent for one lifetime, and even the company of an obdurate man was preferable to a life lived behind convent walls.
The nun’s silver cross was bright against her dark habit. ‘My lady, I should warn you, the Abbess is most displeased.’
Isobel bit her lip—she liked Sister Christine, and it wasn’t pleasant to realise that she had caused her trouble. ‘Sister, please don’t tell me you have been waiting here
