Meriel Fuller - The Knight's Fugitive Lady

Isabella tucked a wayward strand of hair back behind her ear; the fine blonde strands had escaped from the confines of her white-satin wimple. The movement was studied, careful. She was fully aware of her effect upon men; indeed, she delighted in seeing Thomas’s eyes widen with attraction as the curve of her arm carried upwards. It was only when she caught Mortimer’s scowling features behind Thomas that she stopped her flirtatious affectations, letting her hands fall demurely to her lap. To lose Mortimer as a lover would be a mistake; he was instrumental in helping her overthrow the King, as well as being everything that Edward was not: courageous, possessive and ardent in his love for her.

‘You are so kind,’ she ventured, reaching for her silver goblet, sipping at her wine.

‘You and your ladies have suffered much in the journey from Hainault.’ Thomas nodded towards the group of whey-faced ladies clustered around a trestle table. ‘I will do my best to ensure they have every comfort after such an ordeal.’

‘They are exhausted,’ Isabella admitted tightly, tilting her head towards him. In the candlelight her skin seemed poreless, smooth perfection, emphasised by the brightness of the escaping wisps of her hair, her white, even teeth. ‘None of us slept much on the crossing. The weather was against us all the way, simply foul, unbelievable.’

‘Then we must thank the Lord that you are here safe and sound.’ Thomas’s tone was reassuring. ‘And now, you must eat.’ His hand swept over the laden table, the gleaming dishes groaning with roasted pheasant and partridge, yeasty bread rolls. ‘I have a spectacular show prepared for later in the evening—I hope you will stay to watch?’

Inwardly, Isabella groaned. She had been looking forward to an early night, a night spent in a proper bed that didn’t pitch and toss and roll. But one look at Thomas’s beaming, avuncular features indicated she couldn’t disappoint him. She threw him an encouraging smile, helping herself to a slice of roast chicken.

‘Who are your commanders?’ Thomas continued conversationally, chewing on a piece of pork crackling.

‘Obviously Roger has overall command.’ She smiled briefly at her lover; his eyes flicked upwards at the mention of his name, but his face remained neutral. It wouldn’t do to display their adultery for all to see; Isabella was still married to the King of England. The public would judge her harshly if she were seen to be embarking upon an adulterous affair. ‘Hugh de Fontainbleu, Sir John of Hainault, among others.’

‘What about Belbigny?’ the Earl of Norfolk asked. ‘You do not mention him, yet I see him at the end of the table.’ He indicated the tall, dark-haired man.

‘No, no. He is here...’ the Queen paused, delicately, picking at a loose thread on her linen napkin ‘...on other business. It’s a shame, he’s a skilled commander, but unfortunately, at the moment, he has other things on his mind.’ She sighed, staring out over the bobbing heads of the crowded hall.

‘I heard what happened to his family,’ the Earl replied. ‘His father was in charge of a garrison on the border, is that right? The whole family was slaughtered in the conflict?’

‘It was worse than that. The conflict had supposedly finished and a truce had been established, but someone held a grudge against Lussac’s father, returned to the garrison with a group of soldiers and fired the whole place.’

‘I had no idea.’

‘He will travel with us; he hopes to find someone who can shed light on the identity of whoever killed his family. I don’t suppose you have heard anything?’

The Earl of Norfolk shook his head.

‘Then let’s not speak of it further. I don’t want him to hear, not a breath of it.’ Beneath Isabella’s long white fingers, the gemstones on her rings winked in the candlelight as she crumbled a bread roll to tiny bits, scattering them across her silvered plate.

Thomas studied the man at the end of the table covertly, leaning back in his chair, sipping idly from his goblet. Lussac felt the touch of his gaze and turned, pinning the Earl with his hard, dark stare. Thomas raised his goblet in salute, noting the hollowed-out eyes, the lean, ravaged features. What a waste, he thought to himself, as he switched his attentions to Isabella once more. There’s a man who suffers, tortured by what happened to his family. But what man wouldn’t suffer after what he had been through?

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