Chapter Six
Isabeth noticed something about Marian right away.
She kept looking over her shoulder at one of the men riding at the rear of the column.
Given what Dyce had told her about Marian de Wolfe, perhaps she was simply being overly suspicious.
Truthfully, she shouldn’t have even cared what Marian de Wolfe did but, somehow, she found it fascinating that a woman should be so unfaithful to her husband with his full knowledge.
Isabeth hadn’t been oblivious when Ronan had changed the subject away from his daughters the night before. As soon as he mentioned them, he had changed the focus of the conversation and Isabeth had simply gone with it, unwilling to discuss something that was clearly unpleasant to him.
Not that she blamed him.
But Marian was coming to fascinate her as a woman who did what she wanted regardless of whether or not it was proper.
Or, perhaps, that was only the gossip. Not knowing Marian, she wanted to give the woman the benefit of the doubt but that was increasingly difficult as Marian continued to look to the rear of the column, spying someone back there and smiling coyly before she turned back around and faced forward.
Once, Isabeth thought she caught a glimpse of a smile on one of the knights who had come with Marian.
Isabeth seemed to recognize the knight as one she’d seen at Middlesbrough.
She’d seen him sitting at a table at the feast the first night of the tournament and she had seen him the next day simply in the crowd.
Though she’d lived a somewhat sheltered life, she wasn’t a fool.
She was astute when it came to men and women and emotion, and what she was seeing between Lady de Wolfe and the knight was something more than simply friendliness.
There was flirting going on.
She wondered if Ronan was aware.
Isabeth kept going back to what Dyce had said about the situation.
Poor Ronan, he’d said. Marian de Wolfe does not let something like a marriage slow her down.
She has had more men in her bed than a London prostitute.
The politics of the situation were sticky given that the marriage was between two of the largest families in the north, but the fact remained that Ronan had a trollop for a wife.
The more the escort plodded along south towards Ravenscar, the more Isabeth could see how Marian was so wrapped up in herself and in the knight she was trying to flirt with that she didn’t care who noticed her behavior.
And Isabeth had been watching ever since they had left the inn.
The situation had been very odd. Marian had arrived very late the previous night and she’d barely been ready to depart that morning when Ronan mustered the escort.
In fact, she had them all waiting in the kitchen yard as she dragged herself out of the inn, followed by two women and three soldiers carrying her baggage.
She looked as if she’d brought everything she owned with her, which made Isabeth’s two satchels seem rather meager.
She was so tired that she’d barely said two words to Isabeth before the escort headed south.
And that was where Isabeth found herself now – sitting in the wagon bed next to Dyce’s casket, watching Marian aboard her gray palfrey, flirting with the knight at the rear of the column.
Ronan was at the head of the column and Isabeth found herself watching him, feeling sorry for the man who had so much honor in him that he kept his word with a dead man. It was a most confusing situation.
He was a most confusing man.
As the morning deepened, old Gerta provided Isabeth with something to eat because she hadn’t broken her fast at dawn.
Truth be told, she didn’t feel much like eating because the child in her belly made her feel nauseous sometimes, but the bread and cheese and boiled apple juice managed to settle her stomach a little.
She was just finishing it when one of Marian’s ladies trotted up to the wagon bed and held out a sack.
“Lady de Wolfe insists you eat this.” The woman with the high forehead and severe wimple spoke with a lisp. “She says that you must keep your strength up.”
Isabeth eyed the sack. “What is it?”
“Pork and egg pie, seasoned with honey,” the woman said, dropping the sack in the wagon bed because Isabeth wasn’t fast enough to take it in-hand. “You must eat it.”
Isabeth thought the woman quite demanding for a mere servant. “Thank your lady for her kindness,” she said, though she would have been quite content saying nothing at all. “I appreciate it.”
The woman’s gaze lingered on her. “Prove it,” she said. “Eat what Lady de Wolfe has been gracious enough to give you.”
“I will when I am hungry.”
That wasn’t what the woman wanted to hear. “Lady de Wolfe has given you a command,” she said. “You must keep up your strength. We are being forced to escort you home because of your husband’s unfortunate accident and the least you could do is obey your hostess.”
So much for Isabeth’s attempts to be polite. Her eyes narrowed.
“I do not like your tone,” she said. “Lady de Wolfe is not my hostess. She is not my anything. Her husband was a dear friend of my husband and Sir Ronan is escorting me and my husband back to our home. Now, go back to your lady and remain there before I throw this pie in your face.”
The woman geared up for a retort but Marian was suddenly there, resplendent upon her white mare. She put up a hand, mostly to her lady. “Enough,” she snapped quietly. “Go to the rear and stay there, Lenora.”
The woman bowed her head obediently and reined her little horse around, heading back to the group of de Wolfe soldiers who were bringing up the rear. Marian watched her go before smiling wanly at Isabeth.
“She is used to dealing with very difficult people,” Marian said, a half-baked attempt at an apology.
“Sometimes, she is difficult herself. It seems that you and I have not had any time to speak to one another this morning, so I wanted to send you the pie in greeting. I do hope you slept well last night.”
It was a ridiculous and forced question, simply to be polite, and Isabeth resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
This was what she didn’t want to do – be polite and carry on a conversation with a woman she was increasingly feeling a dislike for.
If Marian’s lady was haughty, it was because Marian set the example.
That had been evident since nearly the moment they’d met.
“I did,” she said shortly. “My lady, I am grateful that you have taken your valuable time to accompany me to Ravenscar, but I told your husband that it is unnecessary. Surely I am keeping you from something far more important you wish to be doing. I have no desire to impede you like that.”
Marian’s wan smile turned stiff. “You are not impeding me,” she said. “It is my husband who is impeding me. He is to blame.”
“And I told him I did not want him to come with me to Ravenscar but he insisted. Please know I have not asked him to come with me. Quite the opposite.”
Marian’s smile faded as her gaze raked over Isabeth. “Why shouldn’t he want to come?” she asked. “A lovely young widow? Of course he should want to come. The more you tell him to go away, the more he will remain by your side. He wants to be the first to comfort you.”
It was a terrible thing to say. Isabeth thought she might be trying to compliment her at first, but she quickly decided that wasn’t the case.
It was a blatant insult, quite surprising considering she and Marian had only had civil words before.
Still, it was clear that the woman was bitter and her first hint was that savage lady-in-waiting who had hinted at her mistress’ unwanted journey to Ravenscar.
Clearly, Marian blamed her.
“My lady,” she said slowly. “When you and I met at the feast the other night, I was quite certain that we would be friends.”
“We said so, didn’t we?”
“A friend would not say to me what you just did.”
Marian’s brow rippled with confusion until she realized that Isabeth was on to her not-so-subtle insult. “I simply meant that he was a good friend of your husband,” she said, backtracking. “It is right that he should want to comfort you.”
“I do not want his comfort,” Isabeth said steadily.
“And that is not what you meant. If we are friends, Marian, then friends do not lie to one another. They do not insult one another. I have asked your husband to leave and he has refused, so if you believe he wants to comfort me, then it is not my fault. I have given him no encouragement. But if the man is looking to comfort a woman other than his wife, mayhap the fault lies with the wife.”
All hint of warmth or friendliness was gone from Marian’s face as she realized Isabeth hadn’t minced words.
“You dare say such a thing to me?” she hissed.
“I shall forgive you this time because you are grieving and out of your mind, but watch your tongue, Woman. I will not be so forgiving the second time.”
Isabeth sized her up, thinking that she really was a nasty piece of work. Usually, she wasn’t so confrontational, but grief and travel and Marian’s passive-aggressive behavior had weakened her composure. Marian had made her position on the situation clear.
Isabeth would do the same.
“You can sling insults but you are offended when one is lobbed back at you?” she asked.
“That must be the spoiled, highborn wench in you. Women who are used to hurting others and expecting no retaliation in return. If that is the case, then you have insulted the wrong woman. Treat me the way you wish to be treated, Lady de Wolfe. If you insult me, I will assume you wish to be insulted in return, for I will not cower to your bad behavior.”
Marian’s mouth popped open in shock and outrage. “You little piece of filth,” she growled. “I shall tell my husband what you have said to me. He’ll have something to say about it.”