Read Online Gisborne: Book of Pawns by Prue Batten - Free Book Online Page A

he had kept it quiet and I could only guess it was for my peace of mind. Since our new understanding he had opened a l ittle about what I would find and now haste stretched my nerves as if I were on the rack. But I was convinced he knew more th an he was telling.
    ‘Gisborne ,’ we stood outside my chamber door. ‘What else do you know? You ask me to sell K hazia so that we may make haste. It seems there is something behind this, something of import. Have the grace to tell me. ’
    He leaned across me and I smelt the faint fragrance of leather that hung about him. His hand twitched the door latch and the room was revealed, lit with a brazier in the middle of the floor and a cresset on the wall. ‘May I?’
    A lady did not invite a man into her chamber and I was no whore. If anyone saw us … I glance d quickly along the corridor but it was deserted and so I nodded my head and almost ran inside as he followed , shutting the door carefully. He moved to a coffer and I sat on a chair a safe distance away with my knees jammed together and my gown strained as tight over my knees as if it were a door barred to the world.
    At any other time I would have marveled at his face. I lov ed the sharp planes, his straight nose, ha ir that sat on his collar. I tr ied to seek an answer from his expression b ut there was nothing and in fac t he sat as if he leaned over the chessboard to plan a series of moves witho ut his opponent sizing him up.
    Perhaps I am an opponent.
    Then again I wondered if I might be a pawn. It seemed to me a woman’s life could be legitimately described in such a way – she is offered up as a bride of advantage or perhaps she is offered to the Church. Leastways she is a commodity. In my case, I had been offered up to be sure, but thanks to my less than diligent father, the man who would rather write songs than plan succession, I had managed to keep the pawn on the board.
    ‘Ysabel, wh at I shall say you won’t like. You ask what I know. What I shall tell you is the truth and I ask that you do n’t hold such truths against me but rather accept that they are inevitably facts you would have found out .’
    ‘You scare me,’ m y stomach had tightened and I could feel my heartbeat become unnervingly irregular. ‘But I will not blame you…’
    ‘This is what I would say. When your mother died, your fa ther sank himself into his cups. In the beginning he kept to himself. Ysabel, please do not cry for I have still more to tell.’
    My eyes prickled and perhaps the candle flame caught the sparkle of an unshed tear, but I did not weep. I wished I could sob and wail because my chest was so tight I thought I might not get a breath inside. This is grief, I realised.
    Grief. My silly, weak father.
    ‘But then some hunting friends began to call. They took your father out on long expeditions, returning him blind drunk, and then c ollecting him again the next day and so on. Not so bad you thi nk? Perhaps not, until word be gan to spread from different demesnes, that games of chance were being played and with large stakes.’ He stopped and scrutinized my face.
    ‘Tell me, tell me and be done.’ I whispered.
    ‘Your father has staked Moncrieff, Ysabel, and they say that a Baron De Courcey might be the winner.’
    ‘No! No!’ I utter ed as I jumped up.
    ‘Hush,’ he held my arms, making me look at him. ‘Hush. Y ou need to get back to Moncrieff and talk with your father, with the bailiff and with the priest.’
    ‘ Who is he, this Baron De Courcey?’ I shivered and Guy drew me toward the fire.
    ‘A thug. Moneyed, titled and a thug.’
    I began to shake and I barely noticed as Gisborne rubbed his hands up and do wn my arms to engender warmth.
    ‘ He shall not have Moncrieff.’ I spoke through chattering teeth. ‘ Over my dead body if necessary, b ut he shall not have Moncrieff.’
     
    I sat up h igh on the cot that night barely able to sleep, my arms around my k nees, staring into the dark. The candles had