“Everyone desires Marnis,” Faydide insisted. Then she smiled at Isabella. “And you were fool enough to tell your father that your maidenhead is gone.” She laughed with familiar malice. “You are of no use to your father now.”
Isabella kept her expression calm. “Are you of use to him now?”
“What do you mean?”
“He has no heir. He has no means of gaining one by you.”
The older woman bristled. “I bore your father five sons. It is not my fault that four of them died in childbirth or infancy.” Faydide’s voice rose, for she had to be aware that there were those who said it was her fault. “And he did not defend the one hale son we had. Denis’ death is not my fault!”
“But all the same, it changes much. As you note, Father cannot wed me to a man he might choose to make his heir.”
“He can choose another heir,” Faydide said, clearly thinking of someone specific.
Her father, Isabella knew beyond doubt, would not so favor Mallory. Her father expounded frequently upon the merit of the bloodline, but Faydide had to know that as well as she did. “He cannot wed another woman to conceive an heir while you yet breathe,” she said instead.
Faydide caught her breath. “Gaultier would notdareto put me aside.”
“Perhaps then he should reconcile himself to the appeal of Amaury de Montvieux.”
“And let you become Lady de Marnis in my place? Never! I will never stand aside to let such an injustice occur. My father was a duke…”
Isabella ceased to listen for she was well aware of Faydide’s fondness for listing her family credentials, and she knew them all by rote. The tirade was a familiar one. Instead she wondered about Amaury’s brother. The attack upon Denis was a foul deed, even if done in vengeance. She expected better of a knight, but she had glimpsed Sebastian’s temper.
How much did Edmund know?
And what was the purpose of the keys she now possessed?
If she was to be dispatched to a convent in haste, every moment seemed suddenly precious. Isabella began to wash Denis’ corpse with greater urgency.
“Do not show disrespect to my son!” Faydide said with heat. “Ensure that he is tended with dignity and honor. I expect no less from you.” She leaned over the corpse for her last threat. “Or I will see that your life is wretched in the convent.”
“Surely any convent lies beyond your control.”
“But the donation made by your father to fund your presence will not be.” Faydide’s eyes narrowed with malice. “Do well by me and I will ensure you have a good place. Defy me now, Isabella, and you will be dispatched without so much as a denier to your name. You will find yourself cleaning floors and kitchen pots.”
“Or perhaps even corpses,” Isabella said, unable to resist the temptation. It was hard to believe in this moment that she had much to lose.
“Defiant girl!” Faydide hastened across the chamber. “You will earn your rightful reward. Rely upon it!” Then she charged through the door, slamming it hard behind herself. To her dismay, Isabella heard the key turn in the lock from the other side. “You will not leave that chamber until your task is done and to my satisfaction,” Faydide said from the other side of the door, fairly cackling with satisfaction. “We shall feast this night in honor and memory of my beloved son, but you are not invited to join us, you ungrateful girl.”
The sound of her retreating footsteps was clear.
Isabella surveyed her chilly prison, which offered no comforts, much less a morsel of food. There was naught for it. Here she would remain until someone released her. She returned to her task, wishing Denis might have been better company in death than he had been in life.
The Countof Sant-André was a charming older man, silver of hair and gregarious of manner. He greeted Amaury heartily, his gaze bright with assessment. He had been a good friend of Amaury’s father and though Amaury had not spoken with him often, he recalled his father’s respect for the older man.
“You could be no other than the pride of Lucien de Montvieux,” the count said, impulsively embracing Amaury. “Ah, he was so anticipating your return.” He pulled back and fixed Amaury with an intent look. “I was most sorry to hear of his demise.”
His words were so heartfelt that Amaury found grief rising to choke him. “I thank you, sir,” he managed to say. “I was anticipating the pleasure of conferring with him.”
“I wager you were, my boy,” the count said, clapping Amaury once more on the shoulder. “But come. The board is laden and we will speak of more cheerful matters while we dine. How fare the crusaders in Palestine? Have the Saracens been defeated at long last? I would hear all the tidings from those far shores.”
“Father, you cannot insist on a conversation so very dull,” a young woman with long blonde hair protested. She smiled at Amaury, and he recalled a long-ago comment of his father’s that the count had many daughters to see wed. “Will you sit beside me, sir, and speak of more amiable matters?”
“Thalia! You should not be so bold.” The count chastised his daughter but there was affection in his words and no real censure. The girl’s smile broadened, her welcoming manner unchanged. “I doubt you recall my children, though I hope you remember my lady wife,” the count continued, and Amaury bowed to the countess.
Lady Evaline was as fair and lovely as Amaury recalled, and charming as well. It was clear that the count remained besotted with his wife, and his five daughters, all of whom possessed some resemblance to his wife. Amaury found himself surrounded by pretty maidens, each of whom vied for his attention.
It was no mystery as to why. He felt the lack of a ring upon his finger, and resolved to repair that situation as soon as might be.
