Such wilfulness. I am sorry to have to tell you, Lord d’Aveyron, but you will find Lady Isobel needs a very firm bridle.’
‘I am certain you exaggerate.’ Thus far, Lucien was surprisingly pleased with the way his betrothed had turned out. So much so, that he was beginning to think that his luck might have turned. It seemed that way.
Isobel was pretty, nay, pretty was too pallid a word for Isobel’s golden beauty. She was beautiful. And she had a demure look to her—that neat figure, that simple gown—that gave the lie to the warnings the Abbess was giving about her character. Isobel looked to be precisely the sort of good, biddable wife he wanted. A lady. Someone who—unlike Morwenna—had been bred to duty and obedience. Isobel of Turenne would give him children and she would look after them. And Lucien would be free to manage his life and his estates as he always did. Just look at her. The golden hair concealed by that veil was, he suspected, more soft and fair than that of Queen Guinevere. Were those cherry-coloured lips as sweet as they looked?
‘I do not exaggerate, my lord, I assure you,’ the Abbess said. ‘At any rate, you will be pleased to hear I have put a stop to such behaviour. I have dismissed her escort.’
Lucien felt himself go still. Isobel was no longer a child, and she would shortly be his bride. It was one thing for the Abbess to chastise Lady Isobel whilst she was in her charge, but that she should take it upon herself to dismiss Viscount Gautier’s escort was unthinkable. ‘You did what?’
‘I sent them to Troyes Castle.’
‘You did not have that right, Reverend Mother,’ Lucien said, softly. ‘Viscount Gautier sent that escort for Lady Isobel’s protection.’
‘My Abbey is a house of God, not a barracks!’
‘None the less, you should not have dismissed Lady Isobel’s escort. I am confident that if Viscount Gautier trusts his men to accompany his daughter from Turenne, they are more than competent to protect her whilst she explores Champagne.’
Abbess Ursula looked sourly at his betrothed. ‘Have it as you will, my lord. Since Lady Isobel promises to be rather too lively a guest for my Abbey, I am happy to wash my hands of her. It would not do for her to disrupt my other ladies.’ Her breast heaved and she swept to the door. ‘Count Lucien, never say I did not warn you how wilful she is. I wish you joy. Come along, Sister, I want to discuss your idea for the sisters’ stall at the Winter Fair.’
Lucien watched her go. ‘What a dragon,’ he murmured.
Isobel could not be sure she had heard him correctly. ‘My lord?’
‘We shall be married in little over a week. I would be honoured if you would call me Lucien. And I should like to call you Isobel, if that is acceptable?’
‘I … yes, of course,’ Isobel said, bemused to be granted this privilege after years of being forgotten. Many wives were never given permission to dispense with the formalities. He ignores me for years, and suddenly I am free to call him Lucien? It made no sense.
He turned to Elise who seemed struck with shyness and would not look at him. ‘Who is this?’
‘A friend. My lo—Lucien, this is Elise … Elise, this is my betrothed, Count Lucien d’Aveyron.’
Head rigidly down, Elise made her curtsy. ‘Good day, mon seigneur.’
‘Good day, Elise.’ The Count—Lucien—glanced through the door and back at Isobel. ‘Is your maid very sick?’
‘I don’t think it is serious, but she’s been put in the infirmary.’
‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘I am not sure. I suspect she ate something that disagreed with her. She has been most violently ill.’
‘Can she be moved? If not, I will send someone back to fetch her when she is recovered.’
Isobel’s heart lifted. ‘I’m leaving before our wedding?’
‘If you are in agreement, I see no reason why you should not leave today. But Ravenshold is … unprepared for your arrival. I have asked Count Henry if you may stay at his palace here in town. I am waiting to hear if there is space for you.’
Isobel felt a flutter of excitement and found herself smiling. She had not wanted to show pleasure that Lucien had at last come to greet her. She had meant to be cool, but he had caught her unawares with his offer to remove her from the Abbey that day.
Today! All my life I have been shifted from convent to convent and now …
Freedom!
I must be calm. I must not let him see how I have longed for this day. Yet I must not alienate him either. I shall have to do my best to please him.
Abruptly, her mood darkened. She could not forget that her mother had died in childbirth. Unless I want Mother’s fate to be mine, how can I welcome him into my bed?
Crowding into her mind came another memory, that of her friend Lady Anna. Scarcely a month after a smiling and happy Anna had left St Foye’s Convent for her wedding, she had come racing back. Anna had been pale. She had lost weight. She had taken Isobel aside and started muttering darkly about the horrors—yes, horrors had been the word she had used—of the wedding bed. Anna had only just started when there had been a fearful clamour at the convent gates. Anna’s irate bridegroom had come to claim her.
A blink of an eye later, Anna had left St Foye’s a second time. Isobel never heard from her again. A year later, she learned that Anna had died in childbed. Exactly as her mother had done.
I may never be able to give him an heir. Mother tried again and again to give Father a boy. She died trying. Am I to die in like manner?
‘I shall send word to Count Henry’s steward, and see how swiftly arrangements may be made for you.’ Lucien sent Elise a charming smile. ‘If your friend agrees to accompany you, the proprieties may still be observed. Even the Abbess could not cavil at the arrangements. Well, my lady, what do you say?’
Isobel had opened her mouth to reply, when a novice hurtled into the lodge.
‘Where’s the Abbess?’ the novice gasped. Her face was the image of distress.
‘Talking to one of the sisters,’ Lucien said. ‘Why?’
‘The relic!’ The novice was shaking from head to toe. ‘My lady, the relic’s been stolen!’
Isobel froze. ‘I beg your pardon?’ When she had come from the convent in Conques, she had brought a relic with her—a scrap of cloth reputed to have come from St Foye’s gown. The relic was highly treasured by the nuns in the south, and it was a great honour to have been entrusted with transporting it.
‘The altar’s been smashed in the Lady Chapel and …’ the novice bobbed a curtsy ‘… excuse me, my lady, I must find the Abbess.’ She vanished as quickly as she had appeared.
Lucien looked questioningly at Isobel. ‘Relic?’
‘A fragment of cloth that belonged to St Foye.’
‘You
