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 brought it with you?’
Isobel nodded. ‘The relic is lent to this Abbey until the end of the Winter Fair. Since Father gave me an escort and I wanted to return the nuns’ hospitality, I offered to bring it. It brings pilgrims—’
‘And revenues,’ Lucien put in, drily.
‘I suppose it does bring money, but …’ Isobel looked earnestly at him. ‘Excuse me, my lord, I feel some responsibility for that relic.’ Without another word, she picked up her skirts and hurried out of the lodge.
Lucien followed, somewhat bemused at the interest his betrothed was showing in the theft of a fragment of material that might or might not have belonged to some long-dead saint. She had largely been brought up by nuns, that must explain it. He followed her into a paved yard and past a series of columns—the cloisters that adjoined the Abbey Church. She moved with grace, giving him a chance to see that her figure was most pleasing. As the sunlight lifted the edge of her veil, he glimpsed a thick plait, burnished to gold by the afternoon sun.
The little novice had run off into the cloisters, in search of the Abbess. Lucien followed Isobel into the cool shade of the church where a wooden screen separated a series of side-chapels from the main nave. Eyes round with shock, she had paused at the entrance to one of the chapels, and was absently resting her hand on a carved angel. Her hand was delicate, fine-boned and ladylike. Lucien had never before thought of a hand as being pretty, but Isobel’s was.
Several people must have been at their devotions in the Abbey Church when the thief had struck. A number of townsfolk and a handful of sisters were standing with their noses pressed against the carved screen, watching what was going on in the chapel.
Reaching Isobel as she stood in the chapel entrance, Lucien was startled by an impulse to cover that pretty hand with his. He was in God’s house, and the nuns would definitely disapprove. Experimentally, he placed his fingers on the back of her hand.
Instantly, Isobel was tense, taut as a bow. Her green eyes flickered, and slowly—it was the subtlest of movements—she shifted her hand so that it lay alongside his on the wooden screen. Almost touching, but not quite. As a rebuttal it was subtle, but it gave him a jolt. It made him realise that Isobel of Turenne might not find it easy to forgive him for their much-delayed marriage. Wooing this woman might not be easy. She is hiding much anger.
Dark-robed nuns stood like statues around the edge of the side chapel, stunned by the sacrilege. Peering past them, Lucien saw a brightly painted slice of sandstone with several trefoils cut into it. The altar frontal. Someone had hacked away the border between two trefoils, leaving a ragged black hole. On the tiled floor lay a rope, a crowbar, and a number of sandstone shards.
Skirts sweeping though the shards, Isobel crossed to the altar and the nuns parted to let her through. She bent and took a closer look. The relic must have been housed in the darkness behind the altar.
Isobel straightened, turning to look at him. ‘The reliquary is gone,’ she said. Her gaze went past him, focusing on one of the bystanders. She stiffened. ‘My lord, look!’
A hooded man in a shabby brown tunic was struggling to lace up a pouch. Incredibly, Lucien caught the rich gleam of gold and the sharp shine of blue enamel. A Limoges reliquary box. A box that in itself would almost be as priceless as the relic within it. The man sidled to the church door and nipped through it.
‘Did you see?’ Isobel breathed, brushing past him.
Lucien nodded. ‘Limoges reliquary.’
‘The nerve of the man, pretending to be a pilgrim.’ Isobel was already halfway across the nave. ‘I have to catch him.’
Striding after her, Lucien frowned. He caught her hand. ‘You? It is not your place to catch thieves.’ When her green eyes flashed, he tightened his grip. ‘Isobel—’
Wrenching her hand free, Isobel dived into the sunlight.
Chapter Three
Lucien stared after her. She disobeyed me! It was rare that Lucien’s orders were disobeyed, but it did happen. He sometimes had trouble with young squires when they first joined him, but they soon learned that if they were to succeed they had best obey him. He marched into the sunlit courtyard. It would be the same with Isobel, she would soon learn.
He felt a momentary pang for the bride he had envisioned—pretty, demure, obedient. Lucien had hoped his second wife would put his wishes first; he had hoped she would quietly take charge of the domestic side of his life, leaving him free to focus on military matters.
Lucien was honouring the betrothal contract with Isobel of Turenne because it had been his father’s wish. He had long regretted his inability to grant his father that wish, just as he regretted the bitter quarrel that had followed. A quarrel that had never been mended. Finally he was in a position to honour that betrothal contract, and it was a blow to discover that Isobel of Turenne was not the demure lady of his imaginings. She needed schooling.
He gritted his teeth. She seemed intelligent; she would, he hoped, be a quick learner. She had reached the convent gate. He watched her slight figure whip through it, veil and gown flying, and increased his pace. It was a pity the nuns had not instilled in her the importance of obedience. Clearly, it was up to him to teach her that particular virtue …
Isobel picked up her skirts, raced through the courtyard, and burst into the street. She had no idea why the urge to catch the hooded man had spurred her into such unladylike action, but the thought had been accompanied by an irresistible rush of excitement. He must be caught!
Her heart was pounding. She had brought the relic with her from the south, and she felt responsible for it. It was only being lent to the Abbey here for the duration of the Winter Fair and if it was lost, the good sisters at St Foye’s in Conques would be seriously impoverished. Pilgrims flocked to pray over it, and their offerings brought in much-needed revenues. Those nuns had looked after her for years. She could not stand by and watch while their precious relic was stolen.
Brisk footsteps were coming up behind her. Count Lucien. She heard him murmur something to the startled nun at the Abbey gate.
The relic!
Ahead, the thief—Isobel had marked his shabby brown cloak and hood—slipped round a corner. She hurtled after him. The street was narrow and the way was all but blocked by wooden stalls. Townsfolk and merchants were haggling over prices.
