He raised his hands toward the heavens and shouted, “God forgive me for ever wishing you were a boy!”
Her father grinned down at her, eyes shining, as if she had just handed him the moon and stars.
“Isobel, my girl, I have such good news!”
Northumberland, England
September 1417
T
he cold from the chapel’s stone floor seeped through Isobel’s knees. Her every bone and muscle ached with it. ’Twas not the
cold, however, that caused her to pause in her prayers. Once again, she ran her eyes over the shrouded corpse surrounded by
tall, flickering candles.
When her gaze reached the corpse’s belly, high and wide beneath the cloth, a small sigh escaped her. The body was, indeed,
Lord Hume’s.
This need for reassurance was childish. Chastising herself for her lapse, Isobel returned to her prayers. She would fulfill
this last duty to her husband.
And then she would be free of him.
When next she opened her eyes, it was to find the pinched face of the castle chaplain leaning over her.
“I must speak with you,” he said without apology.
She nodded and held her breath until he straightened. Did the man never bathe? He smelled almost as bad as Hume.
Whatever the priest had to tell her must be important. As her husband’s confessor, he had reason to know Hume’s soul was in
need of every prayer. Still, she was reluctant to leave the servants to keep vigil without her. Despite the extra coin she
gave them, they would cease their prayers the moment the door closed behind her.
Hume had not been a well-loved lord.
When she attempted to rise, her legs failed her, and the priest had to grasp her arm to keep her from falling. She let him
lead her out of the tower that housed the castle’s small chapel. As she stepped out into the bailey yard, a gush of wind cut
through her cloak and gown. She waited, shivering, while Father Dunne fought the wind to close the heavy wooden door.
As soon as he joined her in the yard, she asked, “What is it, Father Dunne?”
Father Dunne pulled his hood low over his face, took her arm, and started walking her toward the keep. “Please, let us wait
to speak until we are inside.”
“Of course.”
The frozen ground crunched beneath their feet. Thinking of the blazing hearth in the hall, Isobel quickened her steps. Food
would do her good, as well. She’d missed the midday meal.
As they went up the steps of the keep, she noticed two of them were cracked. She added the repair to the list in her head.
The castle was hers now. No more begging Hume’s permission to take care of what needed to be done.
As she entered the hall, she saw their nearest neighbor warming his hands at the hearth. She gave Father Dunne a sharp look.
The priest was sorely mistaken if he thought the arrival of Bartholomew Graham was good cause to draw her from her vigil.
“Isobel!”
It set her teeth on edge to hear Graham address her by her Christian name, despite her repeated requests that he not.
“My most sincere regrets at Lord Hume’s passing,” Graham said as he rushed toward her, arms extended.
She offered her hand to prevent his coming closer. Fixing fine gray eyes on her, he pressed his lips to it. He lingered unnecessarily.
As he always did.
She should not have been shocked when Graham pursued her during her marriage. After all, he’d been a liar and a cheat as a
boy. But how he could still not know his good looks and easy charm were lost on her—that was a mystery.
“Thank you for your concern, but I must speak with Father Dunne now,” she said, tugging her hand from Graham’s grip.
She clenched her jaw to keep from snapping at him. Usually, she handled Graham’s attentions with more grace, but she was tired
and her patience short. The last days of Hume’s illness had not been easy.
“If you wish to wait,” she made herself say, “I will have some refreshment brought.”
Father Dunne cleared his throat. “Forgive me, Lady Hume, but I must ask that he join us.” Her face must have shown her irritation,
for Father Dunne hastened to add, “I have good cause, as you shall see.”
She could not very well argue with the castle chaplain in front of the servants in the hall. Biting back her temper, she turned
and led the two men up the circular stairs to the family’s private rooms on the floor above.
She added replacing the castle chaplain to her list.
Once they were in the privacy of the family solar, she did not bother to keep the sharpness from her tone. “Now, Father Dunne,
what is so important that you have seen fit to call me away from my prayers for my husband’s soul?”
The chaplain bristled. “I felt it my duty to inform you of a document your husband entrusted into my care.”
“A document?” She felt a pang of anxiety in the pit of her stomach. “What sort of document?”
“ ’Tis a conveyance of certain properties.”
Just how large a sum had Hume given to the Cistercian monks at Melrose Abbey to say Masses for him? She did not begrudge the
monks, but she hoped there would be sufficient funds left to make the long-neglected repairs to the castle.
“You speak of his will?” she asked.
“A will could not serve this purpose,” Father Dunne said in his ponderous voice. “A man may give his gold, his horse, and
his armor to whomever he chooses in his will—but not his lands. Upon his death, his lands pass to his heirs.”
Father Dunne coughed, looking uneasy for the first time. “To give his lands to anyone else,” he said, drawing a rolled parchment
from inside his robe, “a man must do it
before
his death.”
Isobel had tried for months to convince her husband to let Jamieson buy the small plot he worked so he could marry the miller’s
daughter. With death knocking at his door, Hume must have finally done it. Good deeds, like prayers, could reduce his time
in purgatory.
This must be what the priest was fussing about. She smiled and reached her hand out. “Let me see it, then.”
Father Dunne stepped back, clutching the document to his chest. “I suggest you sit first, Lady Hume.”
Isobel folded her arms and tapped her foot. “I prefer to stand.” Truly, the man did bring out the worst in her.
The priest tightened his mouth and began unrolling the parchment. “ ’Tis a simple document,” he said, still not giving it
to her. “In essence, it grants all of Lord Hume’s lands, including this castle, to Bartholomew Graham.”
The priest had to be mistaken. Or lying. Still, the smug look on his face sent a wave of fear through her.
She ripped the parchment from his hands and scanned the words. She read them a second time, more slowly. And then again, a
third time. She looked up, unseeing, and tried to take in the enormity of what her husband had done to her. Surely he would
not do this. Could not do it. Not after all she had given up, all she had done for him.
For eight long years she was at the beck and call of a peckish old man who wore her down with his whining and constant demands.
Day after day after day. Listening to his tedious conversation. Trying not to watch as food and drink dribbled down his chins
and onto his fine clothes.
And then there were the nights.
She put her hand to her chest, fighting the feeling of suffocation. Once again, she saw him huffing and puffing over her,
red-faced and sweating. God’s mercy! How she feared he would fall dead on top of her and trap her beneath his enormous weight.
After years without conceiving, she finally convinced him the risk to his health was too great.
She resented every day, every hour, of her marriage. Still, she had done her duty by her husband.
“It must be a forgery,” she murmured, looking down at the parchment again. She recognized the script as the priest’s, but
that meant nothing. With shaking hands, she uncurled the final roll of the document.
She ran numb fingertips over the familiar seal.
She watched as the parchment slipped from her hand and fluttered to the floor. The ground shifted beneath her feet. As she
reached out to catch herself, the room went black.
Isobel awoke to the nightmarish sight of Graham and that weasel of a priest hovering over her. Before she could gather her
wits, Graham lifted her to the bench, his hands touching her in more places than necessary for the task.
As she looked down, a deep red drop hit the bodice of her gown. Bewildered, she touched her finger to it.
“You struck your head on the bench when you fell,” Father Dunne said, handing her a cloth. “I did warn you to sit.”
“Leave us, Father Dunne,” Graham said, as if he were already lord of the castle.
The priest’s eyes darted back and forth between them as he backed out of the room. Isobel suspected he went no farther than
the other side of the door.
She glared up at Graham as she dabbed at the cut on her forehead. “How did you get Hume to do it?”
Graham dropped next to her on the bench, sitting so close that his thigh touched hers. Too light-headed to stand, she slid
to the edge of the bench.
“Hume came to believe I was his son,” Graham said, smiling at her. “You know how much he wanted one.”
“So you lied to him!”
“Well, it certainly
could
be true,” he said with a shrug. “Fortunately, the conveyance is not dependent upon it.”
Graham’s mother had been a wealthy widow, notorious in this part of the Borders. When she became pregnant, more than one man
stepped forward, claiming to be the father and offering to marry her. She disappointed them all by keeping her property—and
the secret of her son’s parentage—to herself.
“I gave my husband no cause to punish me,” Isobel murmured to herself. She could not believe Hume would leave her destitute.
“In sooth, the old man was most concerned for your welfare.” Graham stretched his legs out and crossed his arms behind his
head. “It gave him great comfort to know I would wed you after his death.”
“You would do what?” She must have misheard him.
“Finally, you shall have a man who can please you.” His hot breath was in her ear, but she was too stunned to move. “I’ve
wanted you since you were a girl, still playing at sword fighting with the boys.”
Coming back to her senses, she slapped at the hand creeping up her thigh. “What would make you believe I would agree to marry
you?”
“You would prefer,” he said in an amused tone, “to return to your father’s house?”
The blood drained from her head. ’Twas true. If she could not remain at Hume Castle, she had no place else to go. She sank
against the stone wall behind her and closed her eyes.
“Do not fret—your father would not keep you long,” Graham said, patting her knee. “Though you are no longer an untouched girl,
he’ll have no trouble finding another old man to pay to have such a beauty in his bed.”
She swung her arm to slap him, but he caught her wrist.
“ ’Tis always exciting to be with you, Isobel.” With his eyes hot on hers, he pried her fist open and ran his tongue over
her palm, sending a quiver of revulsion through her.
All these years, she had sorely misjudged him. She had considered him a mere annoyance, fool that she was. Only now did she
see he was not merely shallow and selfish, but ruthless and cunning. The handsome face and easy manner hid a man without honor.
A man who would take what he wanted.
“I shall return in a few days to take my place here,” he said.
Isobel’s limbs went weak with relief as he rose to go.
At the door, he turned. “Send a message,” he said, giving her a wink, “if you cannot wait so long.”
A
s soon as Graham was out the door, she raced to it and slid the bar across. Rage pulsed through her now, blurring her vision.
She paced the room, clenching her fists until her nails cut into her palms. What could she do? Surely there must be some way
to challenge the theft of her property. But how would she go about it? Who could help her?
The only person she trusted was her brother. But Geoffrey was in Normandy with the king’s army. She covered her face in her
hands, not wanting to think now how worried she was about him. Her sweet, dreamy brother was no soldier. Sending him off to
fight was one more thing she would not forgive her father.
Her father
. In this alone he would be her ally. He would care if she lost her property.
In the end, she sent for him, for she had no one else to ask.
An hour later, her maid poked her head through the solar door. “M’lady, Sir Edward awaits you in the hall.”
Her father must have set out as soon as he received her message.
Isobel hurried down the stairs to the hall. At the entrance she halted, caught off guard by the wave of loss that hit her
at the sight of the familiar bullish frame. Her father stood half turned from her, surveying the imposing hall with a smile
of satisfaction on his face. After all these years, it should not hurt this much to see him.
With a growing tightness in her chest, she remembered how she used to think he caused the sun to shine. She was the favored
child, the adored daughter he took with him everywhere. If it had been otherwise, she would not have felt so betrayed.
What a foolish girl she was. She had believed her father delayed betrothing her because he could not find a man he deemed
worthy. Galahads are hard to come by.
Then he sold her like cattle. To a man like Hume.
She recalled how her legs shook and her breath came in gasping hiccups as she climbed down from Hume’s high bed to wash that
first night. Behind the screen, she lit a candle and poured water into the basin. As she wiped the blood smeared along the
inside of her thigh, it struck her: her father knew what Hume would do to her. He knew, and yet he gave her to the man anyway.
“Isobel, ’tis good to see you!” Her father’s booming voice jarred her back to the present.
When he came toward her as though he would embrace her, she stopped him with a lift of her hand.
“ ’Tis a shame,” he said, “it took your husband’s death for you to receive me in your home.”