“Trust you,” Isabel repeated. She looked at the little man they said was a wizard, now bent over one of the druids’ scrolls as if it might have meant something to him. “No,” she decided. She needed Simon’s help; she wanted him to stay; but this was too much. Charmot was still hers; these catacombs were hers, whether she could divine their secrets or not. “Come with me.”
“Truly, cousin, you needn’t trouble yourself,” Simon protested.
“Come,” she repeated. “Both of you.”
She led them back past the web-covered effigy and down the narrow corridor to another, plainer door. “I will have this room made up for you,” she said, opening it. “It’s dark, hideously damp, no outside light at all— the floor even gets wet when the rains come hard on the lake. It should be perfect.” She turned back to Simon with a wry smile. “I cannot possibly make you more unc
omfortable unless I have you buried alive in the ground.”
Simon smiled back, and even Orlando had to suppress a chuckle. “Very well, my lady. We thank you.”
“I assume that since you avoid daylight, you would wish to work through the night,” Isabel said briskly.
“Yes,” Simon answered.
“Then I will come back in the morning to lock up the catacombs.” She took the key Simon was holding. “Pay no mind to any noise you hear—you might wish to sleep on the bare dirt floor, but I will not allow it. My servants will make you and Orlando as proper a chamber as we can manage in this hole—”
“Isabel—”
“And you will allow it.” Her tone was firm, and her pretty mouth was set in a line that would broach no further protest.
“Very well.” Simon made his most gracious bow, and Orlando followed his lead. “We most humbly thank you, cousin.”
“As well you might,” she retorted. “Now I will bid you good night.”
Simon watched her go with a smile, his arms crossed on his chest. “A very pretty lady,” Orlando remarked. “Bossy, but pretty.”
“I like her,” Simon admitted. “I wish I didn’t, but I do.”
“It doesn’t matter.” The dwarf gave his arm a pat as he passed on his way to the door. “If we’re to have these catacombs for the night alone, we had best get started.”
Later, Isabel stood at the tower window, gazing out at the night. Behind her, Brautus was sleeping, safe in bed at last, his shoulder freshly bound again and only a bit worse for wear. He had returned while she was in the solar with Simon—no doubt they would have much to talk about tomorrow when he woke. Somewhere far below her, Simon and his mysterious servant were rummaging through ancient texts, looking for wisdom that she, as a woman, was apparently too stupid or innocent to ever understand. And somewhere out in the darkness, a villain was moving closer, determined to make her his bride. But that didn’t matter any more. Simon would be her Black Knight.
A sudden movement caught her eye, a black shadow moving on the opposite shore of the moat. She watched as it moved closer, into the reflected moonlight from the water, and she saw it was a big, black dog, pacing the water’s edge. Suddenly it stopped and sat back on its haunches, facing the castle and her. It stared up at the tower for what could have been a moment or several minutes; she lost track. Why should a stray dog stare at a castle so?
“I’m tired,” she said softly, barely aware she had spoken aloud. Blowing out her candle, she left the window to go to her room and sleep.
3
Isabel had suspected Brautus might be shocked to hear she had let Simon stay to explore the catacombs. But she never expected him to be furious.
“Are you mad?” he demanded, risking his shoulder to wrench himself upright in bed as soon as she had told him all that had passed the night before while he was gone from the castle.
“Not that I’ve noticed.” She set his breakfast in front of him. “But how would I know if I were?”
“You are; trust me.” He glared at the tray as if he bore it a grudge. “And what would your father say, with me tucked in bed like a suckling babe while his daughter takes some stranger and his imp into his study? This man could be anybody!”
“He is my kinsman,” she insisted, spreading a napkin over his chest. “You heard him say as much yourself.”
“Aye, I heard him. Who’s to say he’s not a liar?”
“I say.” She handed him a spoon. “I told you. He is my Irish cousin; he used to be a knight; he fell under a curse in the Holy Land.” He took it without looking, staring at her instead, incredulous. “Papa came to him in a dream and told him to come to Charmot, that the only way to break this curse of his was here.”
“And you believe this bucket of—”
“I do.” She sat on the edge of the bed. “I prayed for him, Brautus. I prayed to God and to my father—I even prayed to the pagan gods of the druids. Send me a true Black Knight.”
“Oh holy Christ—”