Lady Isobel's Champion. Carol Townend

been his pattern of perfection, which was doubtless why Isobel’s golden hair and striking green eyes brought an unwelcome question to the forefront of his mind.

       Do Isobel’s heart and spirit mirror her external beauty?

      ‘Yes, my lord, that has occurred to me, but I truly do not think it matters.’

      ‘No?’

      ‘No.’ She spoke with calm certainty. ‘If someone uses a relic as a means of thinking themselves into health, in my view that is all to the good.’

      ‘We are back to faith again, I see.’

      She smiled. ‘So we are.’

      ‘My lady, will you not agree that if someone can think herself into health, then the opposite may also be true? She could think herself ill.’

      ‘Possibly, I am not sure. These matters are too deep for me. All I know is that I saw that woman walk again.’ Her mouth turned down. ‘I can’t help feeling responsible for the relic since it was I who brought it from Conques. I owe a debt of gratitude to those nuns. Is it so wrong to want it returned to them?’

      He stiffened. ‘I advise you to leave it to the Guardians.’

      The castle portcullis and barbican stood a few yards away on the other side of the drawbridge, they had almost reached the barracks. Lucien guided her on to the drawbridge, noticing that his rebuke had hit home, she was avoiding his eyes. ‘I am wise to you, my lady,’ he said, lightening his tone. ‘If you are completely honest, you will admit that catching the thief was not all you wished to do when you ran into the streets.’

      White teeth bit into a full lower lip. ‘Oh?’

      Lucien leaned in and a delicate cloud of scent enfolded him. It was like a breath of summer air. Honeysuckle and roses. ‘You wanted to explore.’

      Her sudden, deep flush told him that he had struck a nerve. ‘My lord, I …’

      ‘There’s no need to dissemble. You are not a woman to be kept in a cage, not even a gilded one. Your loyalty to the sisters in the south is admirable, and I do not blame you for seizing the chance to snatch a breath of freedom.’ He gestured at the barbican. ‘This is where we shall find your men. Come, allow me the pleasure of continuing to escort you.’

      As they crossed the drawbridge and entered the bailey, Lucien realised that he was not simply giving lip-service to the usual courtesies. It was indeed a pleasure to escort her.

      After years of being cloistered, Isobel found it something of a novelty to be on the arm of a man with Lucien Vernon’s influence. At the garrison, a quick word from her betrothed had them swiftly ushered across whispering rushes into a hall larger than any Isobel had seen in the south. In size it rivalled the Cathedral in Conques.

      Wide-eyed, she looked about her. Without question, this was a hall for soldiers, but she had never seen such splendour. Rank on rank of knights’ pennants hung from the beams, their colours—red, green, gold, blue, silver—were brightened by light filtering through traceried windows. Flames flared in a cavernous fireplace. Antique arms gleamed on the walls. The table on the raised dais at the end was covered in a damask cloth so dazzlingly white it almost blinded. Stacks of wooden serving dishes were piled on side-tables; there were rows of wine-jugs; trays of clay goblets …

      ‘The Countess of Champagne is the daughter of King Louis, is she not?’ she asked.

      ‘She’s his daughter by his first wife, Queen Eleanor.’

      Lucien answered absently, his attention had been snared by a man drinking ale at a side-table. The man’s clothes and spurs proclaimed him to be a knight. As Lucien went to join him, Isobel heard her name.

      ‘Lady Isobel!’ Her father’s man, Captain Simund, was bowing at her side. ‘It is a pleasure to see you, my lady.’

      ‘Thank you, Captain, I am glad to see you. I wanted to apologise for your dismissal from the Abbey.’

      ‘Do not fret, my lady, I understand.’ Captain Simund’s gaze fastened on Lucien. ‘Is that Count Lucien, my lady?’

      Isobel nodded. ‘When he has finished talking to his acquaintance, I shall introduce you. Tell me, Captain, are your billets acceptable?’

      ‘Thank you, yes.’

      ‘And the others—are they well? I was particularly concerned for Pierre.’

      ‘We are in good spirits, my lady. If I may be so bold …’ Captain Simund hesitated ‘… the men are happier here than they would be at the Abbey. We don’t have to tiptoe around. We don’t—begging your pardon, my lady—have to watch our tongues every moment of every day.’

      ‘Captain, I am glad to hear it,’ Isobel said, warmly. ‘I feared Pierre might miss Turenne.’

      ‘Not a bit of it, my lady.’

      After Isobel had introduced Captain Simund to her betrothed, she and Lucien left the garrison.

      ‘I shall show you more of Troyes, you will feel at ease if you know your way about,’ Lucien said.

      ‘Thank you, my lord, so I will.’

      Thus it was that a word from her betrothed to a guard on the city walls gained admittance to the boardwalk ringing the town. On one hand, out across the dry moat, the County of Champagne stretched away to the horizon. On the other lay the town—it was like looking down at a vast parchment map of Troyes. Inky smoke trails wafted heavenwards through a dozen tiled roofs. If the streets had once followed a plan, they no longer did so. Wooden houses were crammed in higgledy-piggledy, no two were the same.

      ‘The roof tiles are a safeguard against fire,’ Lucien told her.

      ‘What about that one?’ Isobel asked, seeing thatch among the tiles.

      Lucien shrugged. ‘Not everyone keeps to the rules. I expect Count Henry will fine whoever lives there.’

      There were straight roofs and sagging roofs—some green with moss, others black with mildew. Every now and then a tree poked up from a garden or square. Alleys and side streets ran every which way. The place was a maze.

      ‘From here you can see that the barracks are inside the old Roman walls,’ Lucien said, pointing. ‘As is St Peter’s Cathedral, we shall be married in the porch. Look, there’s the Bishop’s palace….’

      As Lucien talked, they promenaded slowly around the walls. He had covered her hand with his own. Isobel did not think he was aware of what he was doing, though she was very much aware of him. He ran his thumb softly over her knuckles and she felt him quietly taking measure of her wrist.

      Something inside her trembled and her cheeks were hot. Lucien flustered her. Why had no one warned her she might react in this way? In truth, he had done little, merely stroke her wrist with those long fingers … was her response normal? She had no way of knowing. Nuns—sworn to a life of celibacy—never spoke of such things.

      Isobel stared across the city roofs, hoping Lucien would think she was attending to his every word rather than wondering at sensations such as she had never felt before. Such disturbing sensations …

      ‘And this quarter here …’ Lucien’s voice changed, and when she steeled herself to meet his gaze, she caught the tail end of a smile and her gut clenched. He should smile more often, it takes years from him. His nose wrinkled. ‘I wouldn’t recommend you venture into those particular streets.’

      Isobel couldn’t help notice that Lucien’s eyes were lingering on her mouth. ‘Those streets are dangerous?’ she asked, thoughts beginning to whirl as she came to a realisation. Lucien is attracted to me. Perhaps he is as attracted to me as I am to him …

      How am I to keep him at bay if there is an attraction on both sides? With Mama’s history, I can’t risk a pregnancy. Her mother’s pain-filled cries echoed through her mind, she had fought so valiantly to