They walked slowly to the end of the alley and arrived in a square near one of the canals.
‘These canals power the water mills, there are several in Troyes,’ he told her. ‘And, of course you must see Count Henry’s palace.’
‘I’d love to. I’ve seen so little.’
That twist of hair rippled and gleamed like spun gold. And her lips—they truly were the colour of ripe cherries.
‘Abbess Ursula was going to confine me to the Abbey precincts after I …’ she flushed ‘… rode out to Ravenshold.’
‘Oh?’
‘I didn’t have leave to go.’ The flush deepened. ‘Truth to tell, I knew she would withhold permission, so I didn’t ask. I only saw Ravenshold from the road. I should have liked to see inside.’
Lucien murmured something non-committal about how he would have been there to greet her if he had known she was planning to arrive so soon. He led her on to the bridge over the canal. ‘I take it that was when the Abbess dismissed your escort?’
‘When we returned to the Abbey, she packed them off to the barracks at Troyes Castle. Two of them have never left Turenne before, I hope they are all right. Pierre is sure to be missing Turenne.’
‘And you? Will you miss Turenne?’
Her look was impenetrable. ‘Me? No, my lord.’ She paused, adding softly. ‘I have been trained to be your wife, my home is with you.’
However softly she uttered it, it remained a rebuke. Lucien felt his face stiffen, he was not used to criticism. Particularly since she had every right to be aggrieved. He had kept her waiting.
Searching for a less contentious topic, Lucien leaned on the guardrail at the centre of the bridge, and directed her attention to Count Henry’s palace. This was a long, three-storied residence lying alongside the canal. The lower windows had old-fashioned Roman arches, but the stonework above the upper windows flowed in curves that were distinctly arabesque, mirroring a design Lucien had seen in the Aquitaine. The higher windows were glazed.
‘There’s Count Henry’s palace, where you will lodge until our wedding.’
Intelligent green eyes fixed on the palace. ‘There’s a landing stage.’
‘I don’t expect it’s much used, except for delivering supplies to the kitchens and so forth.’ He watched her study the palace … the landing stage … the canal, and was taken with an impulse to run his finger down the line of her nose. He wanted to turn her face to his, to taste those tantalising cherry-coloured lips …
‘Thank you for showing me, my lord. I look forward to moving in.’
Lucien cleared his throat. ‘As I mentioned, I have asked if there is space for you today, but with the Winter Fair about to begin, the town is bursting at the seams. We may have to wait a few days for an apartment to fall vacant.’
‘There’s no need to bespeak an entire apartment, my lord, I know I arrived earlier than expected. I am happy to share a chamber with other ladies. I am used to it.’
‘I shall bear that in mind. Come, let me take you to the garrison, it’s not far from here.’
‘I can see my men? You are thoughtful, my lord. Although I should be returning to the Abbey soon. The Abbess will—’
‘The Abbess can hardly object to my squiring you about town. I am your betrothed.’
‘I wish we had found the relic,’ she said. ‘Did you know it works miracles?’
Lucien went cold. Isobel’s remark, innocent though it seemed, had him instantly on his guard. He couldn’t stomach a second wife who believed in miracles. Morwenna had given him a lifelong aversion to such nonsense …
‘Yesterday a young woman was brought into the church,’ she was saying. ‘Her legs were paralysed. When she lowered her scarf through the aperture in the altar, it touched the reliquary and her paralysis left her.’
Lucien felt a prickling of unease. ‘You believe that?’
She glanced at him, observed the way he was watching her, and a small line appeared on her brow. His betrothed was clearly more sensitive to subtle shifts of mood than Morwenna had been.
‘I believe the young woman believed it, my lord. And I know she walked from the church, because I saw her myself. As to whether it was a genuine miracle …’ she lifted her shoulders ‘… who can say? I do know the relic brings revenues to the nuns, revenues they use to do many good works. Why, the sisters at St Foye’s …’
Lucien hid his unease and they strolled towards Troyes Castle with Isobel earnestly listing the many good works the nuns undertook in Conques. Lucien found himself torn. Isobel de Turenne was, on the surface, everything a man could want. She had poise, beauty, breeding. And that tantalising hint of the wild. He would not have been surprised to learn that Lady Isobel de Turenne was the subject of many a chanson. Knights would be happy to wear her favour and fulfil quests for her.
However, this mention of miracles worried him.
‘I do not hold with miracles,’ he said, carefully. ‘It seems to me that belief in miracles is a poisonous combination of delusion and wishful thinking.’
‘Poisonous?’ Green eyes fixed on his. ‘Sometimes delusion can be a good thing, my lord.’
‘Can it?’
‘You are too cynical, my lord. You forget, I saw that young woman walk with my own eyes. Before yesterday, she hadn’t walked for years.’
Lucien shook his head. Isobel’s convent innocence was refreshing, but such naivety could be dangerous. ‘I cannot help but wonder how you knew the young woman had not walked for so long.’
‘I asked her.’
‘And you believe everything you are told?’
Isobel’s brow wrinkled. ‘Not everything, but I believe the young woman was telling the truth. You will doubtless say her paralysis was caused by a paralysis of spirit. I saw someone find her feet again. Delusion?’
‘Probably.’
She gripped his sleeve. ‘My lord, does it matter what caused that young woman’s 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