Lady Isobel's Champion by Carol Townend Read Free Book Online Page A

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