Chapter 9 #2
Their match was doomed on every side, as doomed as the daisy coronet that had wilted overnight. Better to stay within these despised walls, both fed and safe, rather than abandoned alone to forage in the wild.
With that prospect before her, Isabella chose.
“My father declares our match to have never been made,” she informed Amaury, keeping her voice cool with an indifference she did not feel.
“And Edmund, of course, remembers only what he is told to remember,” Amaury said. This time, there was bitterness in his tone, and Isabella was surprised by it.
“Sir! I was loyal to your family for decades…”
“And now you may be loyal to Marnis. I wish you good fortune with that choice, Edmund.” Amaury’s gaze was unswerving and vividly blue when it locked upon her. Isabella felt she had failed a test. “In my experience, those whose loyalty shifts with the wind never find themselves secure.”
Isabella felt a hot flush rise over her flesh.
“Go!” Isabella’s father shouted at Amaury. “Leave my gates!”
Amaury inclined his head slightly to Isabella. “My lady,” he said with quiet conviction. “You may choose to forget the vows between us, but I will not. We are sworn, each to the other, and my word is my bond.”
Isabella was torn, but she reminded herself that men sought only their own advantage. Her sole merit to Amaury was as the means for him to regain Montvieux. “The bishop may see the situation otherwise, sir.”
Amaury turned his attention to her father. “Two of my squires are within your walls with two of my horses. I will not leave without them.”
Though she had spurned him and could not blame him for the choice, Isabella wished matters might have been otherwise.
How sweet it would have been to hear Amaury declare that he would not leave without his wife!
She was less surprised than those around her that Philip and Fraser appeared immediately from the stables, leading their saddled palfreys.
Indeed, those who served Amaury seemed to anticipate his every wish.
“Search them,” Mallory ordered. “Ensure they have not stolen from Marnis.”
Amaury visibly bristled and Isabella stifled a gasp of outrage. Her father nodded agreement, not even flinching at this lack of courtesy.
“We did not even have so much as a sip of ale or a piece of bread, sir,” Philip informed her father and uncle coolly. “The horses did drink some water.”
“Then we shall pay for that,” Amaury interjected, his tone as cold as ice. He cast a coin at the gatekeeper. “God forbid that we should expect Christian hospitality upon our return home, much less courtesy from the family of my lady wife.”
“She is not your wife…” Isabella’s father began but Amaury interrupted him.
“On the contrary, sir, Isabella is my lady and my wife, and thus she will always be. I shall not forget my vow and I will never deny it.” He was watching Isabella, his gaze boring into hers. She halfway believed that he would take her and keep her, if only she stepped forward and took his hand.
And yet she feared the price of defying her father.
The boys halted before Isabella and bowed. “We wish you a good day, my lady,” Philip said. “Your mare is brushed and taking her ease.” He did not wait for a reply before he turned toward the gates. Both he and Fraser pulled themselves into their saddles as one.
Amaury remained where he was, his great dark destrier utterly still, as the portcullis was raised. Isabella drank in the sight, fearing it would be her last glimpse of him. He was a magnificent man and, in her heart, she wished he might truly have been her champion.
If only she had been born a beauty.
If only she had been an eligible and suitable maiden for such a man to willingly wed.
If only she had merit in her own right.
The boys rode past him, one on each side, and only when they were behind him did Amaury gather his own reins in his hands. Thierry had drawn back, though he turned his horse in accord with Amaury.
“Fire an arrow upon my departing company and I will bring a vengeance upon you that will pass into legend,” Amaury vowed, such conviction in his tone that Isabella had no difficulties in believing him.
Nor did any others, for they kept their bows and crossbows lowered, standing in silence to watch the party ride away from the gates.
When they were some distance away, Amaury gave a whistle and the small company broke into a gallop.
Within moments, they vanished from view, undoubtedly following the road on its treacherous path through the forest.
Back to Montvieux.
When Amaury was gone, Isabella wished she had gone with him, even knowing the odds against any happy resolution. Oh, she was a fool deserving of her fate!
“An audacious knight,” Mallory said with scorn. “Proud like all those of his family. You are better served with him outside your gates, Gaultier.”
“They were always unreliable scoundrels at Montvieux,” Faydide agreed.
She had recovered from her faint and clung to the arm of her brother.
When they stood together, their relationship could be guessed: though Faydide’s hair was a brighter hue of red-gold than Mallory’s, there were similarities in their features, particularly the downward turn of their mouths.
Isabella clutched Amaury’s cloak and said a silent prayer for his welfare.
With a start, she realized that her father was watching her. “You will tend to Denis,” he instructed, his tone like steel. “You will prepare him for burial and you will pray for him until his funeral.”
Isabella was startled to be granted such a responsibility. “There are those within the keep accustomed to such labor,” she protested.
“Yet you will undertake the task this time,” her father decreed.
“You had best accustom yourself to such menial chores, for as soon as Denis is buried, you will be dispatched to a convent of my choice.” He shook his head when she gasped aloud in dismay.
“You cannot be my daughter, Isabella. Ever since you were born, you have brought me only shame. My own blood would never have betrayed me thus. Enough.”
Isabella parted her lips to defend herself, but her father strode past her. She caught a glimpse of Faydide’s gleeful glance at Mallory before they followed the Lord de Marnis.
A hot tide of rebellion rose within Isabella, too late to be of any merit, as her thumb found the slim band of gold that Amaury had placed upon her finger.
With one edict, her father had shown her the magnitude of her error – when it was too late to repair the matter. That was no coincidence, to be sure.
Nay, it had been his scheme.
Isabella was a fool, but not to have been tempted by Amaury de Montvieux. Her folly had been in obeying her father this time, after that man had proven himself faithless so many times in the past.
Only one man had ever treated her with respect.
Even if it had been a deception, it had been a beguiling one.
Even if Amaury was destined to tire of her in time, in this moment, Isabella had to believe that her life would be better by his side for some short interval than it could ever be at Marnis.
To be consigned to a convent against her will was a worse fate than she had ever imagined possible.
How she had erred.
Worse, there was unlikely to be any chance to repair her mistake.
Woe to any soul fool enough to step into Amaury’s path.
He considered himself a temperate man, one who remained calm in the face of adversity, one who counselled others to cool their wrath, but on this day, he was livid.
His had been a homecoming to exceed all expectations.
He had returned to find his father dead, his legacy stolen and his brothers missing; he had been challenged by the Lord de Marnis’ entitled son to accept a wager he should never have been expected to make.
He was accused of murder by Gaultier de Marnis, he was cheated of all by that man’s whim – and worst, he was denied by the woman to whom he had pledged himself, less than a day before.
Amaury was outraged. He had never been so poorly treated in all his life. Never had he endured such disrespect.
Never had he anticipated that his new wife would open to him like a flower – then deny their union. Who would guess that Isabella would so confound him?
But she was his wife, regardless of what she might now prefer.
The heart of the matter was that those in his family wed once.
They wed for all duration. If Isabella de Marnis thought she could cast him aside so readily as this, that lady had much to learn of Amaury de Montvieux.
She had willingly put her hand within his.
She had made her vows as clearly as he had made his own.
And now it was for God alone to put them asunder.
Not the lady or even her father.
Amaury was seldom angry, but his squires understood in this moment that their consolation would be unwelcome. They rode behind him in silence, keeping in the formation he favored, undoubtedly watching their surroundings as avidly as he.
It was Thierry’s chuckle that stirred Amaury from his dark musings. “For years, I have believed you to be a man incapable of anger,” that knight said with amusement. “It seems I did not know you well.”
Amaury exhaled. “I do not think any soul has ever infuriated me as my lady Isabella can.”
“Is it love, then? A heart lost when first your glances met?” Thierry was teasing, but Amaury could not jest about this matter.
“There is something about her that I cannot ignore,” he admitted heavily. “She is no fool. She confides in me when she sees a peril I do not. That speaks of a trust, yet she does not trust me. I see it in her eyes.”
“Only a fool would expect to be chosen over kin,” Thierry said. “Blood is thickest, after all.”
“But she is my wife.”
“And many a wife is treated with disdain or ignored. Who can say what her expectation might be?”