paralysis? Does it matter what cured her? If a scrap of cloth helped in any way, I cannot see the wrong in it. One way or another, faith cured her.’
The moat and drawbridge of Troyes Castle were at the end of the street. Covering her hand with his, Lucien led her towards it. ‘My lady, do you not think there are those in the Church who might take advantage of the credulous with all this talk of faith and miracles?’
Her veil shifted as she tipped her head on one side and considered his question. And then she was smiling up at him, and the world seemed to shift beneath his feet. She is so lovely. So innocent. He almost missed a step. At one time, Morwenna had 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