A Knight In Her Arms(7)

Alric nodded. His squire had shaved him and with his golden hair and handsome face he looked every inch a maiden’s dream. “Wise move, my lady. But I doubt they will be here before late tomorrow, or even the day after. Freemantle seemed in no hurry. He considered himself victorious already.”

Isabella’s lip curled. “Then he will be shown the error of his ways.”

Noticing Alric’s goblet was empty, she nodded at a servant to fill it from the jug. The feast had been prepared at short notice but as usual Isabella had excelled in adversity, showing Godestone at its best.

As for herself, she was wearing her best dress, with her emerald studded girdle. Joan had brushed her long hair, and if she noticed it was damp she said nothing.

“You spoke of a new style?” Isabella said, and tried not to see the speculation in the girl’s expression. “Perhaps you should try it tonight, Joan.”

“Yes, my lady!”

Hamon had hurt Joan. She had come upon them together, the girl sobbing while Hamon pushed into her from behind. Isabella had been so angry that she’d struck him, beaten at him until Joan was able to escape, but he had only laughed at her. After that she took care to keep the timid girl away from her husband and she knew Joan loved her for it. In a way they were tied together by that awful event, and yet neither had ever mentioned it.

“Lady Isabella.”

Her thoughts were interrupted. Alric was turned toward her. She forced herself to meet his brilliant gaze, forced her pulses to remain steady. Thinking of Hamon helped, remembering his cruelty and humiliation kept her from falling prey to this man.

“How is your leg, sir?” she said hastily, to put him off. She had a feeling he was about to mention things she did not want mentioned.

“My leg is fit and well, as am I, my lady.”

She suddenly found herself remembering his fingers moving between her legs, the shaft of pleasure that had pierced her, and with the memory came a return of the longing ache.

“Lady . . .” His voice had dropped lower. He must have seen the wantonness in her eyes. He reached to cover her hand with his own and she stiffened, hardly believing he would dare to touch her, here, in her own hall, in front of everyone.

“Release me, sir,” she hissed. “You forget yourself.”

He let his hand fall away. “I don’t forget anything,” he retorted, “unlike you, Isabella.”

Her green eyes narrowed. “You say that Stephen will not force me to wed anyone, but I wonder, Alric, whether you may not be planning such a union   for yourself.”

He looked angry. Good.

“Do not think,” and she leaned closer, so that no one else could hear, although the hall was noisy enough, “that what happened today means anything to me. I have forgotten it. If you try to use it against me, to persuade me to marry you, or to persuade Stephen that I need to be married, then I will have you thrown from my gates, Freemantle or not.”

She stood up and, after one last furious look, she turned, her head high and her back straight, and left the hall.



Joan was waiting for her, eager to see if her braided and coiled hair was remarked upon. “I bet Alric noticed,” she said, preparing her lady for bed.

Isabella stiffened. “Why him in particular?” she said icily.

Joan jumped, realising she had said something her mistress did not like. “Only . . . you were so upset when . . . well, it matters not.”

But it did matter, Isabella realised. It mattered very much. And Joan of all people could help her, because Joan had been with her since she was a child. Joan knew as much about Isabella as her own mother.

“Joan,” she said, her voice stiff with nerves. “I wonder. Do you recognise Alric? I think . . . I wonder if I might have met him before.”

Joan blinked at her. She looked pleased. “Lady, he is from Wenton,” she said softly.

Isabella frowned. “I know the name but I can’t recall . . .”

Joan smiled her gentle smile. “You went there with your father when you were but a child of eleven years, lady. You were betrothed to the heir of Wenton, but then your father became Matilda’s man and changed his mind and the betrothal was broken. By then he’d decided Hamon was the better choice. You’d always hoped that matters could be mended with Alric, and I remember you sobbing. You said he had lovely blue eyes and when he’d scratched himself and you’d bound his arm too tightly with your bandages he hadn’t complained at all, and only asked you to remove it when his fingers began to turn blue.”

Isabella cried out softly, her hands clasped tightly against her breast, as if her heart might leap out. How could she have forgotten? Had she really put such a memory so deep inside her? Or was it just that to survive her nightmare marriage to Hamon she’d been forced to blot out all the good things that went before.