forest. His expression sobered. ‘Forget the guilt, you can claim her with all honour. She has waited a long time.’
Lucien rubbed his hand round the back of his neck. ‘I must say, I’m surprised to see her so early.’
‘Once you had written to her father, I suspect he packed her off in no time. He will be anxious to be rid of her.’
Cold fingers feathered across the back of his neck. ‘What’s wrong with her?’ Lord, don’t say I’m to be stuck with another disaster for a wife … another Morwenna.
‘If you had kept in touch with Turenne you would know why Lady Isobel is de trop. Viscount Gautier has remarried. I gather his new lady is keen to have Turenne to herself.’
‘I see.’
‘Poor girl, turfed out by her stepmother.’ Raoul made a clucking sound. ‘And here you are, turning her away at the gate because Ravenshold is a little run-down.’
‘A little run-down?’ Lucien said, exasperated. He had a strong dislike of being cornered, and by arriving early that was exactly what his betrothed had done, she had cornered him.
‘I take it you will be riding into Troyes this afternoon?’
‘Yes, damn you, I shall.’
Count Lucien d’Aveyron turned on his heel and made his way along the battlements and down into the bailey. He did not have to look back to know that Raoul was grinning.
Chapter Two
‘It is not right that you must share my punishment,’ Lady Isobel de Turenne muttered to her companion, Elise. ‘You did not ride out of Troyes without permission.’
Isobel and Elise were sitting in a square of sunlight in the cloisters of the Abbey de Notre-Dame-aux-Nonnains, repairing a blue altar cloth for Advent. The sewing was intricate, with hundreds of complicated knots and swirls. The Abbess had given it to Isobel because she had wanted her to do penance for wayward behaviour. Isobel couldn’t help but notice that the blue of the cloth was an exact match to the blue field on Count Lucien’s colours. Was that deliberate?
‘You should have sought my permission, Lady Isobel,’ Abbess Ursula had said, on Isobel’s return to the Abbey. ‘And as for you leaving the town itself … well! You must take better care of yourself. Anything might have happened, anything. The Winter Fair is almost upon us—Champagne is bristling with beggars and thieves.’
No matter that Isobel had reassured the Abbess that she had been quite safe with her escort. No matter that she had reassured the Abbess there had been no sighting of any beggar or thief. Privately, Isobel found it hard to see that riding out to Ravenshold had been so great a sin—she had come to Troyes as a result of Count Lucien’s summons.
She’d wanted to meet him. She’d wanted to see Ravenshold. But Abbess Ursula thought she should wait until the Count came to claim her. The Abbess ran the Abbey’s school for young ladies and disciplining her charges came to her as easily as breathing. Isobel’s behaviour had been unladylike, and penance must be made.
Isobel and Elise had been sewing for hours. However, it was a mystery as to why poor Elise, who had the misfortune to seek shelter at the Abbey shortly after Isobel’s arrival, must join Isobel in her penance. Isobel couldn’t deny that she was glad of her company since her maid Girande was languishing in the infirmary with a malady picked up en route to Troyes.
‘I am sorry, Elise,’ she said. ‘I wish you didn’t have to pick up a needle to expiate my sins.’
‘I like sewing, my lady. I find it restful.’
Isobel had no response to that. Elise might find sewing restful, but Isobel’s fingers were cramped from hours of needlework. She hated sitting still.
Abbess Ursula had instructed Isobel to use the time to reflect on the duties Count Lucien would expect her to undertake when she became his wife. Instead, Isobel found herself reflecting on the character of her fiancé, and on why he had taken so many years to summon her. Nine years. I have waited nine years for this man. Why? Did he loathe me on sight? However many times Isobel told herself that, since she and her betrothed had hardly spoken to each other nine years ago, it was extremely unlikely that he disliked her on sight but doubts remained.
The guard at the gatehouse denied Count Lucien was there, but I saw movement up on the battlements. Of course, it might well have been another guard, but Count Lucien is here in Champagne. When will he come for me, when …?
Doubts swirled through her mind, twisting and turning like the swirls on the altar cloth. Has he no feeling for what it is like to be betrothed to a man who ignores one so completely? Did word reach him of Mother’s difficulty in bearing a son? Was it in his mind to reject me because I may not be able to give him an heir?
‘Did you see Lord d’Aveyron, my lady?’ Elise murmured.
The sunlight flashed briefly on Isobel’s needle as she formed a silver knot and drew the thread clear of the silk. ‘No, I haven’t seen him in years.’
‘You and the Count were betrothed as children?’
‘I was eleven when we were betrothed.’
Elise’s head bent over the altar cloth. ‘Were you pleased to have been chosen by so great a tourney champion?’
‘The match was made by our fathers. Count Lucien wasn’t a great champion then—that came later.’ Isobel sighed and wriggled her fingers to ease the cramp. ‘But, yes, I was pleased. At the time.’
Elise made another of those encouraging noises as Isobel remembered. She was reluctant to give voice to all she felt for Lucien Vernon, Count d’Aveyron. Shortly after their betrothal, she had been sent to St Foye’s Convent to be schooled to be his wife. Over the course of the years her feelings towards him had evolved. Isobel lived in an age when girls were married young. And though there were aspects of married life she was uncertain about, she wanted her marriage to take place.
‘My friend Lady Jeanne de Maurs married when she was twelve,’ Isobel murmured.
‘Madame?’
‘She left St Foye’s shortly after. Another friend, Lady Nicola, was wed at thirteen. The marriages were not consummated until later, but they were married. They had status. Helena and Constance left at fifteen, Anna at sixteen …’
‘Count Lucien kept you waiting.’
Isobel focused on the sunlight sliding over the stones between the fluted pillars. ‘I am twenty, Elise. It was a great shame to be the oldest girl at St Foye’s who was not destined for the Church.’ Isobel fell silent. She felt far more than shame, she felt forgotten. Unwanted. Unloved. What is wrong with me? Why did he not call for me sooner?
Someone coughed. ‘My pardon. Lady Isobel?’
Sister Christine had entered the cloisters and was standing by a pillar.
‘Sister?’
‘You have a visitor. He is waiting to greet you in the Portress’s Lodge.’
A
