and he opened his mouth to send the steward away. He wasn’t given the chance, though. “I am so sorry to disturb you, my lord, but you have a visitor!”
Henri’s brows rose. “At this hour? Say that I’ve retired for the night and suggest he come back on the morrow.”
“But . . . but my lord, it is the queen!”
Henri said a very rude word under his breath, for the last person he wanted to see tonight was Balian’s strong-willed wife. It was nigh on twenty years since King Almaric’s death had left Maria Comnena a young widow, but Henri thought she remained convinced her handsome dark head was still graced with a crown. His mouth tightened and he started to say that his instructions stood. He remembered just in time that Maria would soon be his mother-in-law. “I will, of course, see Queen Maria,” he said with a resigned sigh. “Tell her that—”
“No, my lord, it is the Lady Isabella!”
The steward’s consternation would have been comical under other circumstances ; it was obvious he thought Isabella had committed a serious breach of etiquette. Henri had hoped to put off this meeting until the morning, but he was not truly surprised that his plans had gone awry; that seemed to be the developing pattern of his new life in Outremer. “Tell the marquise that I will be down to the hall straightaway.”
“There is no need for that.” This voice came from the stairwell, and as both men spun around, Isabella stepped from the shadows onto the roof. Henri was the first to recover and came forward swiftly, kissing her hand with his most courtly flourish. She murmured, “My lord count,” and then dismissed the steward with a smile. He made a sound like a strangled squawk and Henri realized he was appalled that they’d be alone and unchaperoned. Just then, another form emerged from the stairwell, and the steward’s shoulders sagged in relief at the sight of Isabella’s lady-in-waiting. Reassured that the proprieties would be observed, he bowed and hastily withdrew. Isabella introduced her companion as the Lady Emma, saying fondly that Emma had been with her since her childhood. Emma reminded Henri of Dame Beatrix, his aunt Joanna’s mainstay, ever poised to guard her lamb from prowling wolves, and when he smiled at her, he was faintly amused by her cool response. She would not easily be won over; sheepdogs never were. He was expecting her to hover protectively by Isabella’s side, but when Isabella suggested they sit upon a marble bench, Emma took a seat some distance away.
Isabella seemed to sense his surprise. “I trust Emma with all my secrets, with my very life,” she said matter-of-factly, and he realized she was reassuring him that Emma would be telling no tales or relating choice gossip about anything she saw or heard on the roof this night.
“You are fortunate to have such a faithful confidante,” he said, thinking that at least she’d had one ally in Conrad’s household. He’d occasionally felt a few conscience pangs for the part he’d played in bringing that marriage about. He’d been convinced by Balian and Conrad that it was a matter of Outremer’s very survival, but he was still chivalrous enough to feel sympathy for that eighteen-year-old girl, tearfully insisting that she loved her husband, did not want to be separated from him. He’d been pleased, then, by what he’d seen when he’d dined with Conrad and Isabella before his departure for Acre. They’d appeared comfortable together, and he’d noticed no overt signs of stress in Isabella’s behavior toward her husband. Even though it had gotten off to the worst possible start, he thought their marriage seemed no worse than many and probably better than some; at least he’d hoped so. In their world, women were always the ones to make the concessions, and he supposed that was true even for queens.
“I owe you an apology,” he said. “I ought to have seen you ere I left to consult my uncle. That was not only bad manners, it was cowardice.”
“I was not offended,” she assured him, “truly I was not. Like me, you’d been tossed without warning into deep water and you were struggling to stay afloat.” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye and then said, “Mayhap I ought to be apologizing to you? For coming to you like this, I mean. No one wanted me to do it. Not my mother, nor Balian, for certes not the archbishop.