My Lady Knight Read online

  Jordan frowned as a thick drop of rain struck him, quickly followed by another. Standing by Ryce’s grave was silly. Standing in the rain was even more stupid. He loosened his horse’s reins. He needed to make the proper arrangements for moving his friend to La Tour du Courtenay.

  But first he owed Lady Isabella the duty of finding out why she was seeking him. As he walked amidst the trees on his way toward Kenwick Priory, he frowned.

  De Montfort. Jordan knew the family by name, but had never met any of the family who held the title on lands near the border of wild Scotland. The family—a quartet of brothers—were rumored to be in constant battle with one another, each determined to be declared the holder of the family’s baronage and the lands that went with the title. They stopped fighting each other only when the king or one of his sons called them to serve in war. He had met the brothers during the rebellion in 1173, but recalled little of them other than their aggressive arrogance. Lady Isabella had not displayed that same haughtiness, but she was a de Montfort.

  Lady Isabella had four brothers, so why had the lady journeyed to Kenwick to find him? Journeyed alone? What was so urgent that she had not waited at La Tour—or even at Kenwick Castle—for him to return?

  As he led his horse from beneath the trees’ barely green branches into a downpour, Jordan saw the lady standing next to her sack within the arch of the priory’s gatehouse. It was so shallow that it offered her little shelter from the rain. Again he was surprised.

  “Why are you standing in the rain, milady?” he asked in lieu of a greeting.

  She regarded him coolly. “I said I would wait here.”

  “That you did, but it was not raining then.”

  “I said I would wait here,” she repeated as if he had no more sense than one of the spring blossoms bobbing beneath the rain along the priory’s wall. “I need to obtain your assistance.”

  “Who sent you?”

  “I am here on behalf of Queen Eleanor.”

  He frowned at her. “Do you expect me to believe that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  When rain splattered on her face, she drew her hood up over her head. “Because I have just told you that I am here on behalf of Queen Eleanor. You have no reason to accuse me of lying.”

  “Nor do I have any reason to believe you.”

  “True.” A hint of a smile tipped one comer of her expressive mouth. A very charming motion, he thought before he could halt himself. “However, milord, if I wanted to fill your head with lies, I could have done so in the shelter of the priory. I would not have waited in the rain.”

  “Unless you wanted me to believe you were being honest when you were not.”

  She laughed, and he wondered if the storm had been swept away by sunshine. Everything seemed abruptly alive with light.

  “Lord le Courtenay, we can stand here for as long as you wish and debate what I might have done if I had come with lies. However, the truth is that I have been sent by Queen Eleanor to find you, and it would behoove you to believe the word of a lady in her service.”

  He had to admit she was right. Unless she made the queen appear out of thin air—an unlikely event—she could not prove she was speaking the truth ... and he could not prove she was not. And she was kind not to remark on how he had been less than truthful when he first told her she was not interrupting him by Ryce’s grave.

  “If you are the queen’s emissary, why do you come to speak with me?” he asked.

  “Because you are the nephew of the abbess of St. Jude’s Abbey.”

  He had not expected to hear her speak of his aunt. He had seldom seen Aunt Heloise, for she had been named as abbess of St. Jude’s Abbey before he was born. Four times she had come to his father’s estate of La Tour du Courtenay, staying less than a fortnight each time. He had enjoyed her visits because she spent time talking with him, answering questions no one else seemed to care about. Her interest in the world seemed out of place for a woman who had chosen a life within the church. He recalled her smile, because he had noticed, even as a child, that her eyes remained intense and gauging the reaction of everyone around her. When he had mentioned that to his father, he had been told that he should not expect an abbess to react as others did. But she had acted in a very familiar way. She had, at those moments, resembled his father when the earl had some important matter on his mind.

  “Why did the queen send you?” Jordan asked. “Is something amiss with my aunt or her abbey?”

  A faint smile eased the tension on Lady Isabella’s face. “The abbess told me before I left the Abbey that you would be concerned, and she said as well that I should assure you that she is well.”

  “You were at St. Jude’s Abbey?”

  Her smile wavered, and she bent to pick up her satchel as she said, “I have studied with their healer before I came to serve the queen and to seek your help in that service.”

  “Mine? For what?”

  She drew her cloak closer as the breeze freshened with a chill that had not been banished with winter. “Will you walk with me, milord? What I have to say should be heard by no other ears.”

  “Even monks?”

  “No other ears.” She went toward the trees.

  Jordan pulled his own cloak more tightly to him as he turned into the wind and the driving rain. His horse whinnied a protest. Ahead of them, Lady Isabella had bent her head only slightly, as if she were indifferent to the storm’s discomfort. As he caught up with her, matching her paces, he waited for her to speak.

  Even though she did not glance in his direction, she clearly realized he walked beside her because she said, “The task I was given—and for which I need your help—sounds quite simple. Queen Eleanor entrusted some pages with the erstwhile Bishop of Lincoln, and she wishes to have the pages delivered to her.”

  A delicate fragrance drifted from her, tempting him to imagine what hid beneath her cloak instead of heeding her words. He forced himself to focus. “Why would the queen need us to retrieve pages from the cathedral? She could petition the bishop—”

  “There is no bishop in Lincoln now.”

  He wanted to fire back that he knew there was no bishop and that she should not interrupt him when he was about to suggest the queen could petition whoever had served as the bishop’s assistant at the cathedral. He swallowed his retort when they stepped out from beneath the trees. Ahead of him was the mound. It appeared even more pitiful and lonely in the downpour.

  “Who lies there?” Lady Isabella asked, her voice gentling from its assertive tone.

  “My most trusted friend.”

  “I am sorry.” She was silent a moment as they paused by the grave; then she asked, “Why does, he lie here?”

  “The brothers within Kenwick Priory denied him burial inside their walls because he died during a tournament.”

  For the first time since they had walked away from the priory’s gatehouse, she looked at him. Her eyes were narrowed, and he guessed she was appraising him anew. “During a tournament? What a shame for a man to lose his life so worthlessly!”

  “It was a waste. If I had been here, I would have persuaded him not to accept the challenge to gain a woman’s hand. No woman is worth a man’s life.”

  Again she did not speak for a long minute as she stared at the grave. “I agree.”

  “You do?” He was astonished. His disparaging comment about a woman’s value would have gained him rebukes from his sisters. And he could not imagine her brothers accepting such an implied insult without demanding a chance to regain their honor through personal combat.

  “There are enough men dying in wars. More should not die simply to gain a woman’s admiration.” As she raised her head to meet his eyes, her hood slipped back to reveal her hair that framed her face in a golden cloud. He barely noticed that as she caught his gaze with her intense one. “What the queen has asked of us could prevent another war from erupting between King Henry and the princes.”

  “How?”

&
nbsp; “That is all I was told. It was enough for me to offer my service. Is it enough for you, milord?”

  He stared at the unmarked grave. An end to battles between the king and his sons? Was it possible? He had to find out. “It is more than enough. Tell me how I can help you, Lady Isabella.”

  Chapter 3

  “Can we continue our talk under a roof?” Isabella asked with the best smile she could offer. Every drop falling on her shoulder hurt. Getting rid of the sling before she met Lord le Courtenay had seemed like a good idea, for she did not want anything to suggest she would be a burden on their journey to Lincoln. The decision had left her whole arm throbbing. “The rain is finding too many ways through my cloak.”

  Lord le Courtenay gave a half bow toward the priory. “You need not linger here, milady.”

  “Isabella,” she said quietly as he walked around to the other side of the mound.

  “Excuse me?” He faced her. His dark eyes glittered from beneath his hood like two jewels from deep beneath the ground. She was surprised he eclipsed her own height, because the abbess was not much taller than a child.

  But there were so many ways he did not resemble the abbess, for mixed with his grief was an anger that surrounded him like an aura. It was powerful and dangerous and undeniably male. The abbess kept firm control of her emotions. Isabella wondered if Lord le Courtenay could do the same. Even though he tried to hide that rage, its savagery seeped into his every motion and honed every word.

  “My name is Isabella.” She wanted to avoid explaining how strange the title of lady felt. She would have preferred for him to address her as “Sister Isabella,” but she could not—must not—explain why. With a quiet dignity she borrowed from the abbess, she added, “Please call me by my given name.”

  “Why?” he asked as he had before.

  “We are both serving the queen,” she answered, even though it was an insipid response. It was the best she could do when he was watching her intently.

  Why had the abbess failed to tell her that Jordan le Courtenay was so compelling? Isabella had been prepared with everything she needed to say ... and then he regarded her with those intense eyes. Even though the rest of his face was shadowed, she was flustered, struggling to meet his gaze but not becoming lost within it. She had thought she regained her equilibrium while she stood by the priory’s gate, but she had been shown how silly that assumption was when he walked toward her with the fluid steps of a tested warrior. His cloak could not conceal his honed muscles. A scar across his left hand showed he had not emerged from battle unscathed.

  Just as she had not escaped her fascination with his obvious strength. When she had tried to compose her thoughts, she failed. She almost had betrayed the connection between the queen and St. Jude’s Abbey, as well as her place behind its walls. The abbess believed him trustworthy, but Isabella was not yet convinced.

  Still, she had to be relieved that he had agreed to travel with her as the abbess suggested. Relieved? That was not the word to describe the tempest roiling within her.

  “So you are not a nun at my aunt’s abbey?” Lord le Courtenay asked.

  “No.” She must be on her guard and not reveal that no one within the Abbey’s walls took a nun’s vows, for their pledge of service was to Queen Eleanor.

  “A novice?”

  “No. I went to the Abbey to apprentice to the healer so I might learn about herbs and poultices and mending broken limbs.”

  “If using your name is what you wish, milady, I will comply.” He gave a low chuckle, drawing her gaze back to his hood. She realized she had been staring at his strong legs encased in well-worn boots. “I mean, Isabella. But you know that you must use my given name as well, for it would not be appropriate for you to call me by my title when you have asked me not to use yours. Now if you will excuse me ...”

  “Excuse you?” Hadn’t he just agreed to go with her?

  As if she had asked that question aloud, he said, “I will help you after I arrange for my friend’s eternal rest.”

  “You said the brothers within the priory would not—”

  “I intend to take Ryce to La Tour du Courtenay, and then I will assist you in serving the queen.”

  “We need to go to Lincoln as soon as possible.”

  “La Tour is on our way.” He gave her a wry grin. “I assure you that / am being honest with you.”

  “So I should not question you as you questioned me.”

  “I would hope not.” He knelt and tugged at weeds growing over the mound.

  She admired his loyalty to his friend, even in death. Yet the time they had was short. To make sure she had his help in time to get the pages for the queen, she must assist him in moving his friend to consecrated ground.

  Ignoring the storm fading to a drizzle, she asked, “What can I do to help?”

  “Help?” He looked up, and his hood fell back. Astonishment blazed in his earth brown eyes.

  And in her own, she was sure, when she stared at him. His face was puckered near his right temple, appearing as if his skin had been stitched by a madwoman. When he reached to pull his hood over his head again, his left profile was heart-halting handsome. Sleek, dark hair brushed his shoulders and dropped over his eyes. His strong jaw was emphasized by a low mat of whiskers.

  “How can you help me?” he asked sharply, and she knew he had seen her staring.

  She had seen other scarred men on her journey to Ken- wick. She had seen too many, a sure sign of the ongoing wars waged by the Plantagenets, both father and sons. None

  had startled her as much as seeing the ravages left on Jordan’s face. Not just on his skin, but the pain in his eyes.

  She shrugged off her pack, glad the motion gave her the chance to look away. She paid no attention to the twinge that swept along her left shoulder. Once she had fulfilled her duty to the queen, she would have plenty of time to rest it.

  Surreptitiously, she put her fingers to the hollow between her breasts to make sure that she had not lost the key to the casket the queen had given to the bishop. She had slipped the key onto a ribbon and tied it around her neck before she left the Abbey. Each day, she found herself checking the key a half dozen times. To lose it would mean failing the queen. The very thought was horrific.

  Opening her pack, she drew out a wooden shaft and handed it to Jordan. She reached more deeply to find the wooden shovel head she always carried, never certain when she might find an herb or a stone she wanted to study further. Another twinge swept through her. The bam would not be standing when she returned. The abbess had ordered it tom down because the sharply leaning walls might fall at any minute.

  Jordan regarded her with amazement. “Pardon my curiosity, but why are you carrying such things?”

  She started to explain, but he waved her to silence.

  “You can enlighten me later,” he said. “Now if you will take your leave . ..”

  “My leave?” She looked at her empty hands. “I don’t have a second shovel, so I cannot dig, but I can keep you company while you do.”

  “Leave. You cannot help.”

  Isabella did not like the tone of his voice which suggested she had no more wits than his horse. Maybe less. “Why can’t I help?”

  “A corpse is nothing a lady should handle.”

  She stood and started to wipe her hands down the front of herself. Then she realized she did not have her apron on, and she must not min her gown with filth. She had another dress

  in the pack, but she wanted to keep it for when she presented the pages to the queen.

  “Who,” she asked with every bit of indignity she could put in her voice, “do you think has prepared husbands and fathers and sons for burial all the centuries men have been waging war? Women have.”

  “But Ryce’s body has been in the earth for months.”

  “Then there is probably little left but his bones.” She knelt again and ran her fingers through the soil on top of the mound. “The weather has been very warm, and we have had reg
ular storms. Heat and damp hasten the decomposition of anything buried so close to the surface.”

  He choked out something. When she raised her eyes from her examination of the soil, she discovered Jordan regarding her with as much shock and disgust as if she had just crawled out of a grave herself.

  “How do you know that?” he asked.

  “I have learned about such things from my studies.”

  “You study death?”

  “I study nature. Death is a part of life.” Sitting back on her heels, she added, “I enjoy working in the stillroom, and the changing processes of food and the study of healing herbs has led me to be curious about other things.”

  “Very well.” Jamming the handle into the shovel’s head, he dug into the mound. “Stay if you wish.”

  Isabella watched in silence. The only sounds were the shovel cutting into the mound, water falling off leaves as the rain stopped, and the shifting of the horse.

  He dug with the smooth motions of a man accustomed to hard work. The scars on his hand and face had told her that he was unafraid of battle. Such a man would need to wear a full mail shirt as well as a coif and mail gloves to protect himself. The weight of such garments required powerful muscles.

  Odors rose from the earth. Odors of damp and rot and death. Rising, she edged away from the stench. She knew he was watching her, because the rhythm of the shovel changed. Pausing beneath the trees, she reached down and