Lady Isobel's Champion. Carol Townend

Isobel heaved in a lungful of fresh air. Lucien took possession of her hand. He didn’t tuck it into his arm in the more formal manner; instead, he held it at his side, as though they were sweethearts. As he wove his fingers with hers, something knotted up inside her. It was very painful. Rather like longing for something one could never have. She was not this man’s sweetheart—he was marrying her to honour the arrangement his father had made. He wanted Turenne. He wanted an heir.

      ‘My lord?’ Blue eyes glanced her way, as they plunged into a side street. ‘Where is the Field of the Birds?’ The device on Lucien’s shield was a black raven, and the Counts of Aveyron had long been allies with the Counts of Champagne. It struck her that the tourney field must lie on Lucien’s land.

      A pulse throbbed near his scar. ‘I hoped you hadn’t heard that.’

      They were walking between two rows of houses, and the gutter at the side was full of turnip peelings. Isobel lifted her skirts clear before speaking again. ‘My lord, in the Abbey, you mentioned a tournament on the day after our wedding, I realise this must be the same one. Is the Field of the Birds part of your holding?’

      ‘Yes.’ His voice was dismissive. ‘In his day, my father was patron of tournaments held at the Field of the Birds. I have had little to do with them.’

      It was a puzzling response given Lucien’s enthusiasm for tournaments and his success in the tourney field. And was it her imagination or was he avoiding her gaze? ‘Why ever not?’

      ‘Some years ago, I put my Champagne holding in the hands of a steward. He was running Ravenshold well enough. Until recently, I had no reason to visit.’

      ‘There were other tournaments, I suppose.’ She looked hopefully at him, but his face was closed. Unreceptive. ‘I have never been to a tournament, my lord. At Turenne, my father’s minstrel—’

      His expression hardened. ‘Isobel, a tournament is more than pretty ladies handing out favours to handsome knights. A tournament is a war-game.’

      ‘Nevertheless, I should like to see one.’

      ‘I don’t advise you start at the Field of the Birds. I’ve heard it’s badly regulated these days.’

      ‘How so?’

      ‘Since my father’s time it has, so I hear, become … unruly. It will be messy, perhaps bloody. King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table it is not.’

      Isobel looked uncertainly at him. There was a darkness in this man’s soul she could not account for. ‘My lord?’

      ‘Well, that is what you are expecting from a tournament, is it not? Deeds of valour. Quests.’ He spoke abruptly. ‘The tournament at the Field of the Birds is—well, it’s war. If you want to play at being Queen Guinevere, you should wait for the Twelfth Night joust at Troyes Castle. That should be more to your taste.’

      Lucien’s tone disturbed her. He was trying to put her off going to the All Hallows Tourney, but he would not succeed. It was well known that the Kings of France and England had voiced their disapproval of tournaments, but a champion of Lucien’s status would not balk at the toughest of competitions. Was it possible that he was worried about her?

      In truth, the Twelfth Night joust in Troyes sounded as though it would be much more to her taste. Unfortunately, the man who had stolen the relic was going to the All Hallows Tourney, Isobel would have to go too …

      ‘If you are concerned for me,’ she said softly, ‘you need not be. I can look after myself. My lord, are the tournaments held in the Field of the Birds very dangerous?’

      ‘So Sir Arthur—my steward—tells me. As I said, I have not attended one there in years.’

      ‘Will you be competing? I would really like to go.’

      Lucien dropped her hand. ‘Isobel, I advise you to consider this discussion closed.’

      ‘You are taking part!’ She tipped her head back and met his gaze. ‘No champion worth his mettle could fail to relish the challenge of a real tournament. If the competition is fierce, the prize money will be good. Where is the Field of the Birds?’

      Blue eyes seemed to bore right through her. ‘My lady, I see where you are heading and I will not have it. The wretch who took that relic will be looking out for you.’

      ‘He won’t see me. I will be discreet.’

      Lucien snorted. ‘I doubt you know the meaning of the word. Isobel, I forbid you to attend. I won’t have time to watch out for you.’

      ‘But, my lord—’

      ‘Isobel, I do not wish you to attend. Do I make myself clear?’

      Isobel heard obduracy in his voice, but she had met male obduracy before and knew what to do. She dealt with it in the way that she dealt with it when encountering it in her father. ‘Yes, my lord,’ she said, giving him a limpid look. ‘Perfectly clear.’

      Sister Christine met her at the convent gate. ‘Lady Isobel, what were you thinking, tearing out into the town like that?’

      With a bow and a thin smile, Lucien turned on his heel. The gate clanged shut and he was lost to sight. I hope he sends for me soon. Isobel had seen enough of the inside of a convent for one lifetime, and even the company of an obdurate man was preferable to a life lived behind convent walls.

      The nun’s silver cross was bright against her dark habit. ‘My lady, I should warn you, the Abbess is most displeased.’

      Isobel bit her lip—she liked Sister Christine, and it wasn’t pleasant to realise that she had caused her trouble. ‘Sister, please don’t tell me you have been waiting here all this time?’

      ‘Of course—I had to miss Office.’

      ‘Oh, Sister, I am truly sorry.’

      Sister Christine tucked her hands into the sleeves of her habit. ‘You were out a long time; I cannot think what you were doing.’

      Isobel opened her mouth to explain that Lucien had been with her every moment, but the nun shook her head. ‘Don’t tell me, tell Reverend Mother.’ She gestured towards the Abbey church. ‘You will find her in the Lady Chapel.’

      Swallowing down a sigh, Isobel went into the church, pausing by the wooden screen that separated the Lady Chapel from the nave. The Abbess was sweeping up damaged fragments of stone, along with Elise and a couple of novices, and when she noticed Isobel, she thrust her broom at a novice.

      ‘Lady Isobel, I realise you were shocked at the loss of the relic, but you went into the town without your cloak. Without a maid. What were you thinking?’

      ‘I am sorry, Reverend Mother, there was no time to fetch my cloak. And Count Lucien did act as my escort.’

      ‘Apparently, you ran off at such a pace, you did not wait to see whether the Count had followed you or not. It is your good fortune that he did, although I am sure he must have been appalled by such unseemliness. Lady Isobel, you must learn to curb these impulses, and comport yourself with decorum. You cannot forget your status for a moment. Soon you will be the Countess d’Aveyron—you should not be running about Troyes like an unruly child. And most certainly you should not rely on Lord d’Aveyron to chase after you and see you safe.’ Her nostrils flared. ‘I trust you are unharmed.’

      ‘I am.’

      ‘Praise be. You are fortunate that Count Lucien is an honourable man. A less scrupulous one might have seized the opportunity to take advantage of you.’

      Isobel stared at the cross on the Abbess’s breast. What would she say if she knew we followed the thief into a brothel? What would she say if she knew that Lucien—this honourable man—had seized on the chance to kiss me? In public. In the Black Boar.

      Isobel caught Elise’s sympathetic gaze on her and resisted sending her a smile. Abbess