Carol Townend - Lady Isobel's Champion

‘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?’