It had surprised her greatly how much she had misjudged the queen. Well, not entirely misjudged. The queen took diabolical pleasure in the execution of Lord James after he was found tobe plotting with the King of France to unseat Henry. And it all happened without her and Martin’s plotting. Isabella was there for the beheading, and the queen’s smile was filled with cruel malice as the axe fell. Much as Isabella loathed Lord James, she couldn’t bring herself to revel in his demise the way the queen did. But relief washed over her when his head rolled. To think she had almost married a traitor! If she had, she very well might have shared his fate. For so many reasons, she was glad that her husband had prevailed in the end.
She glanced again at Martin, who was thoroughly in his element, making music with the townspeople he loved. Her heart swelled with adoration at the sight of him in all his mustachioed glory. He was such a kind and loving soul. In every way, he was the opposite of Lord James. How she had ever found the earl more attractive was beyond her. She had eyes only for her husband now. There was no more handsome man in all of England, at least to her.
“You two can’t keep your eyes off each other, can you?”
Her cheeks heated at being caught out. “We like each other well enough,” she said lightly. The truth was that they were now so deeply entwined in each other’s lives and hearts that she could hardly remember what it was like before he came along.
Crispin laughed. “This is no marriage of convenience, however it may have started. You two are utterly besotted with each other. I can only hope that I find such marital bliss someday.”
Isabella put her hand on her brother’s and squeezed. “Don’t worry. You will. As soon as your heart heals from losing Eilidh, I’m certain the right woman will cross your path.”
Her brother sighed. “That could be a very long time.”
She squeezed his hand again. “We shall see.”
The musicians came to the end of a song and launched into another. Carenza came running over, crying like her favorite pony had died.
“Mama, Charles took my flowers.”
Sure enough, Charles was scampering around waving his sister’s flower crown above his head.
“Charles,” she called out in the sternest voice she could muster.
Her son’s eyes went wide, and his shoulders slumped as he trudged over to face the consequences of his actions.
Isabella pursed her lips and shook her head, doing her best not to laugh at her two children, who were now jabbing at each other with grubby, sticky fingers. Exactly how many honey cakes had they eaten today?
“Charles, did you steal your sister’s flower crown?” she asked carefully, keeping her mirth at bay.
“Yes, but she stole my wooden horsey.” He pointed an accusing finger at his little sister.
“Carenza, is this true?”
Her four-year-old daughter crossed her arms and glared at her brother.
“Tell the truth now, sweeting.” As she looked down on her strong-willed daughter she thought, Heaven above only knew what she’d be like when she was grown. “Carenza, I’m waiting.”
Carenza dropped her arms and dug into the tiny pouch she wore on her belt. “Here,” she said, thrusting it at her brother. “Now give me my flowers.” She made a grab at the crown, and Charles yanked it out of her reach, cackling with mischief.
“Charles,” Isabella warned.
Her son sighed, dropped the crown on the ground, and kicked it to his sister.
“Now, Charles. That wasn’t very chivalrous of you. What would a good knight do?”
At present, her son was mad for all things related to knighthood. She could get him to do just about anything by saying it was what a knight would do.
With a groan and an eyeroll, Charles knelt down and picked up the flower crown. He dusted it off roughly, then placed it on Carenza’s head. “My apologies, Lady Carenza.”
He bowed, and Carenza curtsied.
“Thank you, good Sir Charles,” Carenza said with all the ruffled dignity of a queen.
Crispin burst into laughter beside her, and Isabella couldn’t help but follow suit. The children were too adorable for words. Her heart squeezed at their antics.
“Will you play sword fighting with me, my lady?” Charles asked. It wasn’t exactly a fit game for a young lady, but Carenza was only four. And despite their frequent fights, she idolized her older brother. Everything he did, she wanted to do too. There would be time enough to turn her into a young lady. And after all, she too had enjoyed engaging in a good sword fight when she was younger.
“Can I, Mama?” Carenza asked, her face aglow.
