Chapter 7 #3
She did not want to be afraid, but already Isabella was.
She liked Amaury. She admired his resolve and his determination to improve.
She trusted his word and she loved how he touched her abed.
She liked how he looked and how he thought and knew she could lose her heart completely to him.
Indeed, why should she not? He was her husband.
But Isabella could not trust in that prospect, though she knew not why. It must be because she was plain.
Perhaps it was merely her past experiences.
Surely, Amaury would become smitten with another woman, a beauty who offered herself to him, perhaps when Isabella was with child and unavailable to meet his needs.
Surely, he would cast her aside if she did not provide a son in a timely manner or if she did not ripen with child at all.
Surely, a union as marvelous as this one had been could not be repeated for years and years, with both partners still so enthusiastic as on the first time they met abed.
She feared that she wished for more than could possibly be her own, for something or someone would take this delight from her, as surely as every other one had been seized.
Isabella closed her eyes and nestled closer to her husband’s heat, wanting all of this satisfaction to endure forever – even as she feared it could not.
Amaury awakened as soon as the sky lightened.
It was a habit that would not be broken soon.
He had slept hard, but not long enough, though that, too, had become routine.
He stretched beside Isabella, acknowledging the exhaustion that he could not indulge.
They must ride to Marnis and return Denis’ destrier – thanks to Isabella’s warnings, he now dreaded the errand.
What could go awry? A hundred details. He could be trapped and attacked, even killed as his father had been.
He could be cheated in some other way. Gaultier could rescind his promise to grant Montvieux to him even after Isabella bore a son.
His family had learned that distrust of those at Marnis was doubly deserved while he had been in the east. He looked at sleeping Isabella and wished he could perceive all that she knew.
He wanted to trust her fully, he knew that should be the balance between man and wife, but her lineage gave him doubts. Her reticence did not reassure.
Would she betray him to abet her father’s plans? He wished he knew. He wondered if she realized that when she hid her thoughts, retreating behind a veritable mask of indifference, that she fed his suspicions well.
Her very decision to be aloof made him wonder what she had to hide from him.
What did he know of her? She was Gaultier’s sole daughter.
She had been left long unwed. She said her betrothals had been broken once the men in question met her.
Amaury did not think she was so unattractive as that.
Perhaps Isabella’s father had demanded more of those men, unbeknownst to her, more than they wished to promise.
Perhaps she had not liked the manner of her suitors once they arrived and had deliberately shown herself in poor light.
He did not doubt that she could do as much. She had the wits for it.
That made him wonder why she revealed such sweetness to him.
He could feel no greater triumph than when Isabella blushed softly, or responded to his touch with an eagerness for more than fueled his own desire.
Was the true lady the one he met abed, or the one who watched him, as inscrutable as a sphinx? Amaury wished he knew.
He hoped he learned the truth at some point in time.
He rose with a frown, noting the wilted coronet of daisies on the rug.
The sight of it made him smile in recollection of Isabella’s pleasure, and though he was not a whimsical man, he found himself carefully picking it up, winding it into a circle and placing it in his purse.
It would remind him of his lady’s trust and give him hope for their shared future.
In that moment, he heard Philip outside the tent.
The boy silently brought him hot water and Amaury bathed, then gestured that he would don his armor outside the tent, leaving Isabella to sleep.
His fellows were stirring, as well, Lothair preparing to ride out even though the sun had barely crested the horizon.
Once dressed, Amaury wished his comrade well, advising him on the route, then shaking his hand heartily.
He watched, Luc and Thierry coming to his side, as the Viking rode away, his squire close behind.
“Will your brother await him?” Luc asked just as Roland joined them both.
Amaury nodded with a conviction he did not quite feel.
“Aye,” he said, watching Roland nod agreement, then hoped with all his heart it would be so.
The roast venison had been sliced into their one great pot, and water added to make a thin sauce.
It heated now over the rekindled fire, but Amaury had a task to perform first.
He excused himself, gesturing that Roland should remain with the others, and strode to the crypt. He would seize the opportunity to pray for his father, and perhaps that man might grant him some guidance for the day ahead.
Once in the crypt, Amaury dropped to one knee beside one sarcophagus and bowed his head, hating this inescapable truth.
His father was dead, lost to him forever.
He thought of Isabella and chose to believe that his father would have endorsed the match, even without Montvieux in the balance.
The memory of his father inviting Isabella to dance that night so many years ago had the power to prompt his smile.
He prayed silently, then asked his father for guidance in the days ahead.
There was no evident reply.
But then, Amaury had not truly expected one.
Aware of the sounds of activity in the camp, he rose to his feet, the chill of the place having seeped into his very bones.
He passed a hand over the cool surface of the sarcophagus, aware that he must ride out shortly for Marnis.
What would he have given to hear his father’s hearty laugh one last time?
To have that man clasp him close and welcome him home?
Like his brothers, Amaury felt cheated, and in so many ways. He wanted someone to blame, and the obvious candidate was Gaultier de Marnis.
That did not mean the man’s daughter was his enemy, as well.
“I will avenge you,” Amaury vowed softly to his father. In this moment, he was convinced that his father’s will was with him.
He could almost feel the weight of that man’s hand upon his shoulder.
He would not fail.
Suddenly he heard a flock of birds take flight from alongside the nearby river, calling as their wings beat against the air. The hair prickled on the back of his neck, a hint that he was no longer alone.
Amaury spun to find Isabella silhouetted in the doorway to the crypt. She was dressed, her hair braided and coiled around her head again. How did she manage without a maid? Surely, she was not accustomed to being without one?
She watched him steadily, her thoughts and feelings securely hidden from view once more. He wished her manner might be otherwise.
Had she heard his vow? If so, that would explain much of her manner.
He held her gaze, fairly daring her to ask him.
“The meat is ready,” she said, then turned to leave as if naught was amiss at all.
Amaury stepped after her, catching her elbow in his hand. “Tell me,” he invited.
She spared him a glance of open hostility. “What shall I confide in you, sir?”
“Why you are vexed. When last we spoke, you were pleased.”
To his relief, she did not flinch from the confession. “Why do you swear that you will avenge your father?”
“Why should I not do as much?”
She halted, spinning to face him, such fire in her eyes that she was transformed. “Why do you insist that he was poisoned? You cannot know as much. Your healer cannot have discerned as much after so much time.”
“Do you accuse me of some deed?”
“Aye! It seems you fabricate a crime, that you might make an accusation against my family,” she said hotly. “Why?”
“I do not,” Amaury protested but he could not hold her gaze.
She leaned closer, ensuring that she stared directly into his eyes. “You who insist upon honesty cannot look me in the eyes,” she said with quiet force and complete conviction. “You who insist you do not lie, tell me a falsehood all the same.”
“It is not a lie. He was poisoned.”
“How can you know such a detail?”
Amaury frowned and averted his gaze, staring into the distance. “Can it not suffice that I do?”
“Nay, for there is no evidence to that effect. It is not rational to hold such a belief and you are rational, sir.” She shook her head, so annoyed that Amaury could not be glad of her offhand compliment.
“If you would create a rift with my father, you need not invent a cause. It is well known that he coveted Montvieux and that he urged your father to cede the holding to him. That alone would be sufficient cause to resent him.”
“And what if he did more?”
“I do not know that he did,” Isabella said.
“What if I could prove it? Would you believe me?”
She retreated a step. “If the evidence were credible.”
“Even against your own father?”
Isabella shook her head, and this time, she was the one who averted her gaze.
“Aye, I should believe it,” she said quietly.
“And perhaps more readily than any other, given all I know of his nature.” Before Amaury could ask, her gaze collided with his again, her manner intent, as if she sought to persuade him.
“But you cannot ride there to make such an assertion without proof of any kind. Your beliefs will not suffice.”
Amaury felt his eyes narrow. “What do you know of the destruction of Montvieux?”
She took a breath. “That it happened, no more and no less. Those in command at Marnis do not confide in daughters. I would ask Denis, in your place.”
“And would he answer me?’
She lifted a brow. “I doubt as much. Perhaps Edmund might be more inclined to share.”
Amaury knew he looked skeptical at this. “I would not put much credit any claim made by Edmund. His convictions change with the wind, and his alliances.”
“I thought as much. I never liked him.” She spoke with vehemence and Amaury dared to be encouraged that they agreed in this matter, at least.
“Nor I.” He claimed her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm, holding her gaze. “Then we must build our trust of each other upon our shared view of Edmund. It is precious little in terms of common ground, but it is a start.”
“You would lay a cornerstone upon our mutual dislike of your father’s minion?”
“I will begin where I must.”
Isabella, surprised, laughed, then put her hand over her mouth to hide her smile. Her eyes danced though in a most alluring way.
“Edmund told Roland that the seal and signet ring were gone when he found Father dead,” Amaury said, watching her expression become wary. “But if your father offered Montvieux to me, he must have both in his possession.”
“If he does, I have not seen them,” she said. “But then, I would not. Such items would be in my father’s treasury, if he holds them, and I am not permitted to gaze upon his riches.” A crease formed between her brows. “If they were lost, could they not be remade?”
“I do not think them lost,” Amaury said with resolve. “I do not think any man would suggest such a bargain as your father did, unless he held the offered reward in his hand. If they were lost and could be remade with the permission of the king, then I would have no need of his wager.”
Isabella nodded slowly, as if she considered some path.
“What are you thinking?”
Her smile was fleeting. “I dare not confess it to you, sir, for you might think me a rebellious daughter.” She pivoted then and walked toward the fire, leaving Amaury to wonder what she meant to do.
How could she not guess that he would welcome the prospect of her rebellion against her father, Gaultier de Marnis?