Page 5

P erhaps not all hope was lost, Isabella thought as she made her way to the solar.

The soft padding of her feet in her pointy-toed, leather-soled pigaches echoed in the bare stone corridors of Bamburgh Castle.

At least she would be heading south soon.

Not as far south as she would like. Winchelsea was still a long way from her childhood home in Bordeaux. But the weather would be milder.

And maybe Lord Martin was someone she could work with.

Not that she could trust him an inch. After all, he was Lady Eleanor’s man.

He was also deeply irritating, the preening fool.

But the deal he struck indicated he might be malleable, persuadable.

If she could only convince him to annul the wedding, perhaps she could salvage this terrible situation.

She just needed to keep up her shrew act long enough to convince him to give her up.

As she entered the solar, she was relieved to find it empty.

She needed a moment to herself. All she wanted was to sit at the loom and mull things over as her fingers went through the motions of weaving in different colored threads.

It was easier to think when her hands were occupied.

Something about the rhythm of tapestry weaving seemed to clear her mind and help her puzzle out the thorniest problems.

The scene emerging on the loom was of yet another battle. Her mother’s bloodthirsty nature played out in handicrafts. Isabella was quite certain her mother’s disdain for her father was born of jealousy. Why should he get to ride out into battle when she was forced to stay at home and sew?

Settling on a wooden stool, Isabella began to weave. And plot.

Several weeks’ journey wasn’t very long for her to figure out her future or to rescue Adelaide, but she was certain she could play the shrew sufficiently well to put Lord Martin off.

Not that the act was too far from the truth.

The man was insufferable, and she had no desire whatsoever to find herself tied to him for life.

Once she was rid of him, should she marry an English earl or a Norman count?

Either would suit her purpose, though she needed someone with enough distance from the duke and duchess to defy them and keep Adelaide.

As she mentally listed her marriage prospects and weighed their relative advantages, her fingers flew across the strings of the loom.

How would she gain their attention? Lady Eleanor might be able to send a missive to the man she wanted to marry and have him come running, but Isabella didn’t have the richest province in France to entice her prospective groom.

She would have to find some other means of convincing them to come to her aid, especially since, to all outward appearances, she would already be wed.

Looking down at her work, she realized she’d woven a strand of green where she needed to weave white, and she went back and fixed it before settling back into the rhythm of the loom.

Who should she choose? The Earl of York, the Earl of Norfolk, and the Earl of Chester were the three most promising candidates for husband that came to mind.

Each one offered a different strategic advantage.

All three were currently unmarried. The Earl of York was a supporter of King Stephen’s.

He would certainly be willing to defy the Duke and Duchess of Normandy, but would he even consider Isabella a prospect after her time with Lady Eleanor?

The Earl of Norfolk, on the other hand, remained neutral, courting both sides in the war but aligning himself with neither.

The Earl of Chester was a Norman by birth and a longtime supporter of Henry’s claim, but he thought Lady Eleanor wielded too much influence over her husband.

He might be willing to take her down a peg by defying her, though it was risky.

Finishing a row, she checked the pattern that was emerging and checked her thread supplies.

She was going to need more brown for this next row.

There were a lot of horses to depict. Reaching into a wide basket on the floor beside her, she pulled out another roll of brown and began her weaving again.

Of the three, the Earl of Norfolk seemed the most likely candidate.

She’d met him several times, even flirted with him once at a saint’s day festival.

He’d gone as far as kissing her, though she had escaped before things went any further.

He had a reputation for ruthlessness and ambition that she thought she could work to her favor.

She cared far less about what kind of husband he would be than about his ability to protect her and Adelaide.

His persistent neutrality in the face of civil war gave her confidence that he would think nothing of defying Lady Eleanor’s demand for Adelaide.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the door. Adelaide entered, carrying a lute, and her red-rimmed eyes told Isabella she’d been crying.

“Do you have a plan yet?” Adelaide asked, loosening the thick shawl around her shoulders.

“I have the start of a plan. The less you know the better, at least until we set sail,” she answered carefully. “Otherwise, Mother might try to pry it out of you. You’ve never been good at keeping secrets. Your face gives everything away.”

Adelaide nodded and sniffed. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You are honest and innocent, and I pray that never changes.” Isabella dropped her hands from the loom and reached out to squeeze her sister’s arm.

“Have you met your husband yet?” Adelaide asked, blinking back a new round of tears.

“Yes,” Isabella answered with a frown. “I met Lord Martin this morning.”

Adelaide put down the lute, leaning it against the wall, and pulled a high-backed chair over beside her sister, putting a gentle hand on Isabella’s that almost broke her. “What’s he like?”

Isabella closed her eyes and pulled away, willing herself to stay calm. It was too much that her sister was worrying about her when she should be worrying about herself. And what could she possibly reveal about Lord Martin without offending her sister’s ears?

The man was a coxcomb and not to be trusted.

She didn’t like the mischievous twinkle in his chestnut eyes or the way his dark brows arched in amusement.

But when his red lips curved into that arrogant smile of his, something within her seized up.

It must have been from revulsion. That was the only reasonable explanation.

Why did Lady Eleanor pair her with someone so unsuitable? This eager popinjay was not someone Isabella could tolerate, regardless of his sharp wit or his generous offer. It must be a punishment of some sort from Her Grace.

“He’s an ass,” she blurted, then covered her mouth.

And he didn’t care a whit when she insulted him, which was strangely alluring. No, no. It wouldn’t do to start thinking of Lord Martin as alluring in any way.

Adelaide cracked a smile at her slip. “That’s all you have to say about him? That’s rather uncreative, coming from you.”

No, she could say a great deal more, but it was easier to fixate on that than on his enervating appeal, which she had no desire to acknowledge aloud.

“He’s an irritatingly optimistic baron from a town of no importance with an exasperating sense of humor. And if Lady Eleanor sent him, he is not to be trusted. My bridegroom is merely the final insult in this steaming heap of humiliation.”

Her sister’s smile broadened. “You protest too much. I’m starting to think you like him.”

“What? No. Impossible. How could I like a man whose attentions are intended to mortify me? If there was any justice in the world, Lady Eleanor would have recognized my worth and matched me with a husband suitable to my rank and years of loyal service. But no. She’s discarding me like yesterday’s table scraps, despite my efforts in her name. ”

Unable to sit still, Isabella stood and started pacing.

“Didn’t I help her collect the dirty details she needed to persuade King Louis to annul their marriage?

Didn’t I risk life and limb fleeing with her to Aquitaine as kidnappers pursued her?

Didn’t I braid flowers into her hair the day she married the Duke of Normandy in secret?

In what way have I failed her to deserve such a fate? ”

Adelaide shrugged in sympathy. “Have you considered the possibility that this isn’t a punishment?

Perhaps Lady Eleanor thought you and he would suit.

And maybe she thinks you’ll be safer in the days to come if you’re with a backwater baron than with one of her prominent vassals. There is a war on, after all.”

Isabella squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her fists. “Have you ever known Lady Eleanor to do something kind and considerate? You know the woman has no heart. If only I were more like her.”

If only Isabella could quash all her inconvenient emotions and follow Lady Eleanor’s example! With her cold, calculating mind, she’d find a way out of this fix in no time.

“I only know what you tell me about her,” Adelaide answered. “You make her sound just like Mother.” She picked up her lute and started tuning it.

Isabella shook her head. “Mother is merely mean. Lady Eleanor is diabolical. And why shouldn’t she be? Look where it’s gotten her. She was queen of France, and any day now, she’s going to be queen of England.”

“Yes, but she doesn’t sound like a very happy person.” Adelaide plucked a few tentative chords.

“Nobody’s happy in this world. The best we can hope for is to marry a man of position who protects us and our loved ones from harm.”

Adelaide gave her a level look. “Now you sound like Mother.”

That stung, but she could hardly tell Adelaide her true motivation. It wouldn’t do to burden her narrow shoulders with the weight of it. “I’m sorry. It seems I’ve grown cynical over the years. You shouldn’t listen to a word I say, sweeting. You’re far too good for this world.”

Her sister put down her lute and came over to Isabella, opening her arms for a hug.

It was embarrassing how badly Isabella needed that hug. Surrendering her dignity, she stood up and embraced her sister. Adelaide felt so small and fragile in her arms. Isabella was almost afraid she was going to break her.

“I’m so sorry this is happening,” Adelaide murmured in her ear.

Something inside Isabella broke at those words, and she began sobbing uncontrollably against her sister’s boney shoulder.

“There, there,” Adelaide said in a soothing singsong. “It’s going to be all right. You are strong and clever, and underneath all your prickliness and sharp wit, I know you have a loving heart. Together, we’ll find a way through this.”

Isabella sniffed. “You overestimate me. The truth is, I’m just like Mother. She and Lady Eleanor have made sure to purge any tender sentiments I might have possessed. I’m as heartless as they are.”

Tears ran down her cheeks, and despite her protestations, she must have had a heart because it was breaking at her sister’s kindness.

“Hush.” Adelaide murmured a steady stream of empty reassurances as the storm blew itself out.

After several long minutes, Isabella was able to take deep breaths and compose herself.

Thank God no one had come in to witness this pathetic display.

She untangled herself from her sister’s arms and went to a side table with a water pitcher and basin.

Pouring water, she splashed some on her face.

The cool, refreshing drops cleared the last of the distress, and steely resolve replaced the aching vulnerability she’d felt in her sister’s arms.

“I’m better now,” Isabella said, as she returned to her stool by the loom. “I can face this. I’m sorry for losing control like that.”

“Don’t be.”

The sympathetic look on her sister’s face almost sent her over the edge again, so she turned to look at her father’s armor. That was what she needed—a metal suit to shield her from harm.

“Play me a song of war,” Isabella said without meeting her sister’s gaze. “No love songs today. We need to prepare for battle.”

A moment later, Adelaide began strumming swift, martial chords and started singing their father’s favorite song about King Arthur at the Battle of Camlann in her quivery soprano.

Isabella began weaving again, taking heart from the lyrics about bravery and sacrifice, as King Arthur triumphed over Mordred.

Fortunately, there wasn’t time for Adelaide to sing all the way to the tragic end where King Arthur perished after his victory.

Sure enough, as Adelaide reached the climactic moment, the door to the solar opened, and a servant walked in.

Adelaide stopped playing, and their mother’s lady’s maid entered and said, “The countess requires your presence in the chapel, Lady Isabella.”

“I wish Crispin was here,” Adelaide said dismally. “He’d put a stop to all this.”

Isabella shook her head sadly. “We probably won’t ever see our brother again.

If he survives this war, Father will surely bring him back here, and we’ll be at the other end of the country.

” The three of them had been inseparable as children.

Crispin had always been his sisters’ greatest defender, but he was a knight in the service of the Duke of Normandy now.

There was no way to enlist his help in their current troubles.

“My lady?” her mother’s maid inquired.

This was it. There was no avoiding this wedding. She could only pray that her new husband stuck to his end of the bargain and that she had a chance to execute her plan. What she would do if she ended up stuck with the obnoxious baron for the rest of her life, she had no idea.

“I’m coming. Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

Taking her sister’s arm, she swallowed her anxiety and mentally donned her armor, ready to face battle. She would marry with her head held high, come what may. And then, the real work would begin.