Chapter 1 #2
The others took a collective breath and it was Luc who spoke from the portal. Evidently, he had been listening, as well as keeping an eye upon the horses. “You must consider that they might be responsible.”
“Nay!” Amaury roared. “Nay, I will not!””
“You could not have known what would transpire,” Thierry said by way of consolation. Lothair was wrapping the shroud around the dead man once again.
“I should have been here,” Amaury said hotly. “I should have held his hand at the last.”
The others were silent.
“Where is your gift?” Lothair demanded and Amaury was startled.
“What?”
Lothair put out a hand and Amaury belatedly understood. He surrendered the stone that Marcus had given him, the so-called poison stone. Lothair placed it against the lips of the dead man and even in the light of the candle, Amaury saw the stone turn black.
Philip caught his breath. Lothair frowned. Thierry crossed himself.
Amaury leaned closer. The stone might have been carved of obsidian. He seized it and peered at it, noting how it turned back to its customary green when removed from his father’s lips. He held it there again, horrified when it darkened again.
“God in Heaven,” he whispered. “He was murdered.”
“And Montvieux burned to the ground after his signet ring was claimed,” Thierry said.
“There is treachery here, as foretold,” Lothair said. “You cannot deny it.”
“It is not safe to linger in this place,” Luc added. “Who can say if we will be assaulted? You as his eldest son are the sole one who could rightfully challenge whoever has stolen your legacy.”
“But my brothers must be close. The villagers cannot have vanished.”
“We should move on. It is only good sense,” Lothair said.
They returned the lid of the sarcophagus to its place, then the other knights urged Amaury back toward the sunlight.
His gaze clung to the familiar contours of the land, even without the structures he had known all of his life.
Amaury could not deny his desire to stay.
Montvieux had been his destination ever since he departed.
It seemed wrong to leave, to abandon his father, and where would he go?
He knew he would always yearn for Montvieux.
It was home.
“I say we all ride for Provins with Lothair,” Thierry suggested. “We shall halt at taverns and see what we can learn. There may be tidings or even gossip about your father’s death.”
Amaury nodded slow agreement. “I see the sense in that, but I must linger here one night.” He felt the restlessness of his companions.
“It will grow dark before we can reach a tavern or town on that route. I have my tent from Outremer.” The other knights exchanged glances and Amaury felt their indecision. “One night,” he added in appeal.
It was Lothair who nodded and spoke the consensus. “One night,” he agreed. “But we ride at dawn.”
Amaury shook the hand of each knight in turn, glad of their agreement. They did not need to know that he would have stayed alone, even though he knew that was foolhardy. He reached to put a hand on Philip’s shoulder. “We will avenge them,” he vowed to the boy. “I swear it to you.”
“Aye, sir.” There was a stubborn jut to the boy’s chin. “We will.”
But if an army had attacked Montvieux, turning it all to ash, poisoning his father and spiriting away all those loyal to the holding, what could Amaury alone do to set matters to rights?
He did not know. He did not care. His honor demanded that he had to try.
He knew enough of war to recognize that he might not succeed, and that indeed, the quest might claim his own life.
So be it. He had lived every day of his life for Montvieux and he would die for it, as well.
Isabella de Marnis did not like to hunt in the forests of Montvieux.
She knew the game was plentiful, but no more so than in the forests of Marnis.
To come to the neighboring holding to hunt felt like a violation to her, a slight to the family who had ruled these lands so recently.
She and her half-brother might as well have been poachers.
Denis did not share her view. Isabella suspected he would hunt at Montvieux every day, if only to gloat in the triumph of Marnis over Montvieux. Montvieux had been brought to heel, as her father had commanded, and was now a daughter estate to Marnis.
It was also destroyed, every crumb of value burned to ash and every loyal villein dispersed. Only the deer and the pheasants remained.
Perhaps Denis would ensure that the forests were emptied as well, simply out of spite.
To Isabella, victory over Montvieux was a hollow one and hardly to be celebrated. Once they had possessed a neighbor, but now there was only ash and wind. Her ankle ached on this day, though the wind was not damp, and she was inclined to attribute it to Denis’ choice of hunting place.
It was late afternoon, the sun well past zenith and the shadows already growing longer.
The day had been warm but not hot, the skies were clear, the breeze was light.
The nights were already cooler and soon the wind would become chilly.
They were returning to Marnis with two slain deer and a brace of rabbits.
“You do not join the spirit of the hunt, Isabella,” Denis complained now, slowing his horse to ride beside her.
His horse, a fine white destrier of majestic proportions, stamped and snorted to be held back at all.
Isabella often thought the beast was in command and not her brother.
“I do not think you have taken so much as a hare.”
“You know I do not like to hunt here.”
“And yet you ride out with me, even knowing my destination.”
She slanted a glance his way. Truly, he was his mother’s child. Snide, petty, selfish, and he had Faydide’s small mean eyes as well. He was grinning at her, enjoying the chance to taunt her. What a vile creature he was.
But Isabella smiled sweetly. There was nothing to be gained in goading mother or son, for they were malicious and inclined to turn upon anyone, merely for amusement.
Her father always took Faydide’s side, which meant that Denis could do no wrong.
She certainly would not complain about her ankle, as that always gave Denis satisfaction.
“I like to ride when the weather is fine,” she said mildly. “And it is good for Caprice to be ridden regularly.”
“Even when I ride to Montvieux?”
“The forest is most lush here. I enjoy seeing its vigor.”
“It reminds you perhaps of what you most wished to have,” Denis said with a smirk.
Isabella felt her flush rise, though she feigned ignorance. “I do not know what you mean.”
“Oh, come, sister! You heard our father scheme with the late Lord de Montvieux over a marriage of alliance.”
“They did not scheme. They negotiated.” Isabella was certain her father had been the sole one to scheme.
All the same, what might her future had been if the Lord de Montvieux had not died three months before?
The man had three sons and her father had been determined to wed her to one of them, putting Montvieux securely beneath his thumb.
Now, those sons were no more, the oldest lost in Outremer and the two younger sons vanished.
Denis laughed. “Yet the father died and the sons fled like rabbits from the prospect of taking you to wife. Truly, Isabella, you must consider yourself well beyond the possibility of matrimony. A man could not expect to get sons upon you at your advanced age.” He leered at her, his mood a result of his indulgence in wine on the hunt, and lowered his voice.
“And why would he want to? You are the plainest demoiselle ever born.” He laughed at his own jest as Isabella kept her gaze downcast. She did not wish to know which of the men in the company joined Denis’ merriment.
“But you should hunt when we ride out. It would be healthy exertion for you.”
“Indeed, you may speak the truth. Perhaps next time.”
“On the morrow, then? The weather promises to be fine.”
Isabella granted him a simmering glance. “On the morrow.”
“And you will strive to take a deer?”
“I hardly think we have need of another.” Isabella indicated the two being carried behind the horses, both killed by Denis earlier in the day.
“There is always need for venison. If you had the wits to know aught at all about the administration of a holding, a man might wed you for that competence. Alas, you possess the worst of every measure. Ah well, you can be nursemaid to my sons.”
“You have no sons, brother, nor even a wife.”
“But I will have one. A wealthy beauty, as Father promises, and she will be as fruitful as a hare.” He laughed in delight. “We go to Paris in September to secure the match.”
“I knew naught of such a journey,” Isabella said, feeling her spirits rise in anticipation of a reprieve from Marnis.
Denis laughed again and leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Because you are not invited, Isabella. Father says you will stay at Marnis in our absence. Maman is certain that the sight of you will diminish my options. No one, after all, chooses to wed into a family burdened with feeble stock.”
Isabella could not entirely regret a decision that would see her denied the company of both Denis and Faydide, but she would have liked to go to Paris.
She had never been far beyond Marnis’ borders and she was curious about the greater world.
She also knew she was unlikely to ever find a husband within the walls of Chateau Marnis.
“We must go and look upon the razed keep,” Denis said with undisguised anticipation. “Father will wish to be assured that naught has been disturbed.”
It was macabre, in Isabella’s view, this compulsion the pair of them had to revel in the destruction of Chateau Montvieux.
Isabella found it sad to visit the empty land which had once hosted a vibrant community.
But the route was for Denis to choose and she could only follow his lead.
She reminded herself that a day riding with Denis was better than one spent tending to Faydide’s whims.
They passed through the last of the forest, Denis urging the beaters to walk more quickly, ignoring the burdens they bore. He was giddy with his success, as was his inclination, but he pulled his horse up short where the road left the trees behind.
“What is this?” he said beneath his breath.
Isabella drew alongside him and looked. She blinked for the sight was most unlikely, but the silhouette of a tent remained clear.
It was a round tent with a peaked roof, of the type minstrels insisted would be found at a tournament, occupied by a valiant knight and his squires, or a maiden whose favor all would strive to win.
It was red and bore a pattern that she could not quite discern, and she wondered if it was made of silk, as those in the tales were said to be.
Why would such a tent be here? Who occupied it? From whence had they come?
“Who dares to make camp upon the lands governed by the Lord de Marnis?” Denis demanded of no one in particular, then summoned the party onward with a flick of his gloved hand.
The horses cantered at the pace he set and the beaters had to run to keep up.
The dogs raced ahead, certain there could be naught better than this frolic.
As they drew closer, Isabella spied a number of horses grazing beyond the tent, perhaps a dozen of them, several of which appeared to be destriers. She could see men staking the tent and a number of boys around the men and the horses.
They must be knights. Those must be their squires.
It was a company that set camp. Why here?
Why now? Her interest redoubled. When one of the men looked over his shoulder, she felt a tingle of anticipation.
He turned and braced his hands upon his hips, fairly daring Denis to ride toward him.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, his mail hauberk glinting beneath the hem of his tabard and at his neck.
His hair was black and wavy, long enough to curl at his nape, and his tabard was deep blue.
It was graced by three white fleur de lis.
Isabella’s heart skipped for he could be only one man.
After eight long years, Amaury de Montvieux was returned from Palestine. He was not dead, after all!
She doubted he was pleased with what he had found.
Isabella was uncommonly glad to be present as witness of his return.
She had always admired the son of their neighbor and her father’s rival.
She had always believed that Amaury de Montvieux was the most handsome, noble and chivalrous knight in all of Christendom.
He had scarce glanced her way all those years ago, but after he rode to crusade, Isabella had prayed daily for his safe return.
Her prayers were proven this day to have power.
She watched him hungrily, noting that he seemed yet whole and hale, relief making her breath catch.
What a glorious man he was. The sight of him had made her heart skip years ago, when he had been but a youth and she, a clumsy maiden.
But now he was a knight and a man, one who moved with purpose and grace, and the weight of his gaze upon her, even for a heartbeat, was sufficient to thrill Isabella to her toes.
She sat straighter in the saddle, wishing she might have been more than she was, but knowing it was for the best.
The most handsome men had the blackest hearts, she reminded herself. They lied to secure their own advantage, and oft possessed the charm to hide their intentions – even their cruelty. She knew this well, and knew it well enough that she could never forget it.
But still, she could look upon Amaury de Montvieux and perhaps nurture a tiny dream that he might defy all she knew to be true.