Читать книгу Lady Isobel's Champion - Carol Townend - Страница 10

‘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 visitor? He? Isobel felt Elise’s gaze on her. ‘Who? Who is it?’ she asked, though the sharp jolt in her belly told her the answer.

‘Count Lucien d’Aveyron, my lady. Your betrothed.’

Mouth suddenly dry, Isobel handed her end of the altar cloth to Elise. At last! She was surprised to note her hands were steady. In her mind’s eye she could see a pair of vivid blue eyes. She had always remembered his eyes.

She cleared her throat. ‘Elise, would you care to accompany me?’

Elise hesitated. ‘Sister Christine will be with you. Do you need me to come too?’

‘I would welcome your support.’

‘Then of course I shall accompany you.’ Elise folded the Advent cloth, and placed it carefully in the workbox.

In the corridor outside the Portress’s Lodge, a quatrefoil was cut into the wall. ‘One moment, Sister,’ Isobel said, pausing briefly to glance through it as she straightened her veil.

Lucien Vernon, Comte d’Aveyron, was stalking the length of the lodge, boots sounding loud on the stone-flagged floor. Light from a narrow lancet fell directly on him, giving Isobel an impression of long limbs and hair that gleamed as black as jet. One look and she sensed impatience in him. Here was a man who was not used to waiting for anyone.

Isobel recognised the square jaw and regular features, but not the ragged scar on his left temple. Count Lucien must have received that at a tournament, for there was no scar on the day of our betrothal. Oddly, the scar did not detract from his looks, if anything it enhanced them. This was no callow youth, but a man of experience. A powerful and handsome man.

‘Lady Isobel.’ Sister Christine urged her into the lodge, and before Isobel knew it she was facing him. Lucien Vernon, Comte d’Aveyron, champion of tournaments beyond counting. Her betrothed.

She dropped into a curtsy. ‘Lord d’Aveyron.’

Taking two swift strides, the Count lifted her hand in a firm grasp. As he bowed over it and kissed it, a tremor shot through her. At last. Count Lucien might not be used to being kept waiting, but he hadn’t hesitated to make her wait. I have waited nine years for this moment.

‘My guard mentioned that you rode to Ravenshold this morning,’ he said. ‘I apologise that you were turned away, but I didn’t look to see you until Advent.’

Hearing censure in his tone, Isobel felt herself flush. ‘Once my father received your letter, he was anxious that I should come without delay.’

Blue eyes studied her. ‘I trust your journey was not too taxing? You are recovered?’

‘Yes, thank you, my lord. I enjoy riding.’ Had Count Lucien always been so tall? For a moment he was a complete stranger rather than the man Isobel had been betrothed to so long ago. His eyes met hers and then she knew it was he. She had never forgotten that he had the bluest eyes, they were warm as a summer sky. The colour was unexpected in someone whose features were otherwise so dark. Unforgettable. As for the warmth—that had faded from her mind with the slow turn of the years. Seeing it again, she was emboldened to add, ‘It has been a long time.’

‘It has been too long. I know it, and am sorry for it. However, I am delighted to see you again.’ He led her towards the light, holding her at arm’s length while he continued his appraisal of her. ‘I would have come for you sooner, but …’

‘You were occupied with your lands, with tournaments.’ Isobel kept her head high, appalled to feel herself flushing as he ran his gaze up and down—hair, mouth, breasts … This was her betrothed of many years, yet he was making her feel nervous—edgy in a way she didn’t understand. Why did his gaze make her feel so self-conscious? She wished she could read him. What was he thinking?

And why was Elise hovering out in the corridor when she had made a point of stressing that she would welcome some support?

‘You have grown into a strikingly beautiful woman,’ Count Lucien said, softly. ‘I find myself regretting the duties that have kept us apart for so long.’

Isobel sent him a direct look. It had been a relief when she had heard that finally Lord d’Aveyron’s summons had arrived at Turenne, and she wanted him to know that she had not enjoyed the wait. He ought to know. ‘Duties, my lord?’ Conscious of Sister Christine hovering by the door, she lowered her voice. ‘It has been nine years. My lord, I know you have become a great tourney champion, but must you attend every tournament in Christendom?’

She caught a slight grimace, quickly concealed.

‘A thousand apologies, my lady. King Henry and King Louis disapprove of tournaments, which means that sometimes one must travel long distances to find the best of them.’ He lifted his shoulder. ‘The prize money can be good.’

Isobel stared at him. Lucien Vernon held so much land it was hard to believe that he struggled to raise revenues. He had estates in Champagne, Normandy and the Auvergne—plenty of resources, surely? Something felt wrong. Was he so ambitious—so avaricious—that he must win every prize in Christendom? And if so, why had he not married her sooner? She was an heiress.

Later, I will go into this with him later. I cannot ask revealing questions with Sister Christine hanging on our every word.

Count Lucien smiled and she felt it in her toes. His eyes were not pure blue, they had black and grey flecks in them and they were very penetrating. Disturbing. Isobel did not remember them being quite so disturbing nine years ago.

She steeled herself against him. It stung to look into those thick-lashed eyes and recall that he had not cared to visit her in nine years. Their match might have been arranged by their fathers, but from the moment Isobel had met him she had been drawn to him. Once the delays had started and she had realised that he did not feel the same way about her, she knew that when she next faced him, she must conceal the attraction she felt. An attraction that was still there, despite the years of silence.

Even then, there had been a hint of the devil about Count Lucien d’Aveyron. Today, it was strong. She could feel it in his touch—in the way a smile or a glance weakened her self-containment. The nuns had never mentioned that men possessed such power. It was … unsettling in an exciting, shivery way.

Such power was dangerous. Such power was to be resisted. Particularly when she found it in the man who had shamed her. He ignored me for years! I will not grant him power over me.

Count Lucien was her betrothed, that much was set in stone. Isobel had never wished to escape their marriage, but if she wanted to keep her self-respect, she must guard her heart. This man would soon be claiming her body. It was a husband’s right and she was realistic enough to know that even if she wanted to she would not be able to hold him at bay. But he would never touch her soul.

Nine years, he ignored me for nine years …

‘My lady, as you are doubtless aware, I sent for you because it is time for our marriage. It will be soon.’ His fingers squeezed hers, warming her inside all over again.

There was movement behind her. Abbess Ursula had entered the lodge—the ruby at the centre of her silver cross was glowing like an ember. Elise trailed in behind the Abbess, moving unobtrusively in the shadows behind her.

‘Count Lucien.’ Abbess Ursula inclined her head. ‘I assume you have come to arrange your wedding. Did you have a particular day in mind? I take it some time after the turn of the year will be convenient?’

‘The turn of the year? Lord, no. Since Lady Isobel is here I see no reason to delay.’

The Abbess drew her head back. ‘Count Lucien, Advent is almost upon us. You are doubtless aware there can be no weddings in Advent, and it will be hard to arrange it before then. I realise Lady Isobel is already chafing at her confinement here, but her early arrival has thrown us into disarray and—’

‘I am aware of all that,’ the Count said, voice dry. ‘And I intend to take responsibility for Lady Isobel’s care as soon as possible. Our marriage will take place before Advent begins.’ He looked at Isobel. ‘Do you care to choose the day, my lady?’

Isobel thought quickly. ‘I should like to marry on Winter’s Eve,’ she said, picking a day at random.

‘Winter’s Eve?’ His blue eyes were thoughtful. ‘I’m taking part in a local tournament the following day, but I imagine that might be arranged.’

The Abbess frowned. ‘But my lord, Winter’s Eve … that doesn’t give us long to prepare.’

‘I am sure the bishop will accommodate us. And should he prove difficult, I expect you, Abbess Ursula, as cousin to King Louis, to use your influence.’

Isobel’s mind was awhirl. In truth, she was in a state of shock. Not once in all that time had he shown the slightest interest in her. She had grown used to his neglect. But thankfully it seemed he really did intend to marry her. Of course, she would feel happier if he hadn’t made it plain he would be squeezing the ceremony in before one of his all-important tournaments …

The Abbess sighed. ‘Winter’s Eve is not the best of days for a wedding, my lord. You may not recall, but in some quarters it is known as Witches’ Eve.’

‘Is it?’ the Count said, stiffening.

It might be wishful thinking on Isobel’s part, but it was as though he disliked the way the Abbess was so dismissive of her suggestion. Is he to take my part against the Abbess? Is he to be my champion? It was a novel feeling. Isobel felt herself begin to soften towards him.

You fool, have the long years taught you nothing? You mean nothing to him.

‘Reverend Mother, are weddings actually forbidden on Winter’s Eve?’ he asked.

Abbess Ursula shook her head. ‘No, my lord, but—’

‘Then Winter’s Eve it is.’

The Abbess gave a curt nod. ‘As you wish, my lord.’

Blue eyes held Isobel’s. ‘My lady, you realise our marriage will take place before word reaches your father? Viscount Gautier will not be witnessing our wedding.’

‘I am reconciled to that,’ Isobel said. ‘I realised some while ago that my father would not be attending the ceremony.’

‘Oh?’

‘He no longer enjoys full health.’

Count Lucien’s expression was sympathetic. ‘I was saddened to hear of your mother’s death in the summer, I didn’t know Viscount Gautier was also in poor health.’

Isobel nodded, and jerked her gaze away. Grief welled up and the narrow window behind Count Lucien was lost in a mist of tears. Her wounds were too raw for her to speak about her poor mother. ‘Father has remarried. I am sure he will have mentioned this in your exchange of letters.’

‘Yes, so I recall.’

In her heart, Isobel felt her father had betrayed her mother by remarrying so soon. The words caught in her throat.

It irked her that after prevaricating for so long, Count Lucien had merely to snap his fingers and she must come running. Her new stepmother, Lady Angelina, must have been thrilled when his summons had arrived, for she had wasted no time in packing Isobel off. Isobel could have remained at St Foye’s, but the convent was clearly too close to Turenne for Lady Angelina’s comfort. Notwithstanding this, Isobel would have felt she was betraying her father if she complained at being so easily dismissed.

If only her father had ridden to St Foye’s to bid her farewell. Conques was not far from Turenne. Isobel understood that his illness had probably prevented it, but she would have liked a private message of Godspeed. Instead, her father had simply forwarded Lucien’s summons to Mother Edina. And Mother Edina had duly relayed it to Isobel along with the news that her escort awaited outside the convent gates, and would she please pack up her belongings without delay.

She cleared her throat. ‘My lord, despite his marriage, Father is not in good health. He will remain in Turenne.’

‘I hope he recovers swiftly,’ the Count said.

He looked so sombre, Isobel had a depressing thought. If her father and Angelina had a son, and despite her father’s ill health that was possible, then Isobel would no longer be an heiress. Was Count Lucien regretting arranging a marriage with a woman who might never come into an inheritance?

I want Count Lucien to want me! I don’t want him to reject me because he considers me a poor prospect.

How lowering to feel this way.

‘Count Lucien, a word if you please?’ The Abbess gestured him to one side. They went to stand under the window and although Abbess Ursula’s tone became confidential, she had a carrying voice. ‘I cannot help but notice that Lady Isobel is in need of … discipline. I fear her father gave her too much licence at Turenne.’

The Count drew his head back. ‘Lady Isobel has spent much of her time in St Foye’s Convent—I would venture that the good nuns there, rather than Viscount Gautier, are responsible for her upbringing. She will not prevail on your hospitality for long. I am making arrangements for her to lodge at Count Henry’s palace.’

‘Lady Isobel’s maid is sick, my lord. Lady Isobel will have to remain here until the girl has recovered.’

Before she knew it, Isobel had stepped forwards. ‘I am perfectly capable of packing my belongings myself, Reverend Mother.’

‘And I should be pleased to help,’ Elise said, from her place in the shadows.

The Abbess lifted an eyebrow. ‘Very well. I suppose I should expect nothing less.’

‘What can you mean?’

‘Lady Isobel, from the moment you have arrived, you have shown little sense of propriety.’ She huffed out a breath and frowned at the Count. ‘Your betrothed needs a firm bridle, my lord. This morning she left the convent without permission. It grieves me to confess that she has been wandering about the county like a pedlar’s daughter.’

Lucien watched a flush run into Isobel’s cheeks. She was staring stolidly at a cross on the wall. She came to find me. She might have arrived in Troyes a month before she was expected, but Abbess Ursula was not going to be permitted to bully her. ‘Lady Isobel rode to Ravenshold,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately, I had given my men orders to admit no one and she was turned away.’

‘Be that as it may, Lady Isobel should not have left the Abbey without my leave.’

Isobel stepped forwards. ‘I took an escort.’ Large green eyes turned towards him. ‘My father’s men-at-arms escorted me from Turenne. They did not leave my side for a moment.’

Abbess Ursula made a clucking sound with her tongue. ‘Lady Isobel should not have gone without my permission. Such disobedience. 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 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.