Chapter 74

Isabella’s POV

The war has long been over, but the army still cannot fully withdraw. The harsh winter makes it difficult to march, and after years of devastation, many areas in the Holy Land require rebuilding, and the soldiers can lend a hand.

I pulled my wool cloak tighter as I helped Sister Marie, the nun from the convent near Symonford, change the bandages of a wounded knight.

"Lady Isabella," Sister Marie whispered, her eyes darting nervously to the courtyard. "The soldiers are talking again."

I nodded silently, keeping my hands steady as I applied the herbal poultice. The whispers and rumors about Beatrice had spread through the camp like wildfire, despite her desperate attempts to silence them. The soldiers who had rushed into the mountain cabin that day spoke in hushed tones, their words carrying weight that no amount of denial could suppress.

"Isabella," Melisande appeared at the doorway, her armor gleaming dully in the winter light. "She's looking for you."

I knew who she meant without asking. "Thank you, Melisande. Please stay with our patient."

The courtyard was covered in a thin layer of fresh snow, my boots leaving clear tracks as I walked. Beatrice stood by the broken fountain, her dark hair whipping in the wind.

"You all stayed at the bottom of the hill, refusing to save me," she spat as I approached. "You wanted me dead, didn't you? How cruel of you, Isabella. Did you expect me to take my own life? I won't. I shall live better than any of you."

I studied her face, noting the desperate pride in her eyes. The mighty female knight, now clinging to whatever dignity she could salvage. "You're mistaken," I replied, my voice carrying across the empty courtyard. "If I truly wished for your death, it would be simple enough. I could have you dragged to the cliffs at night, where the wild dogs would feast on your remains. Or perhaps a drop of hemlock in your bear, leaving you begging for death's sweet release."

Her face paled, but she lifted her chin defiantly. "I am always Lady Beauchamp."

"My congratulations then." I sneered. "I trust you'll take good care of Lady Margaret." I maintained my composure, displaying nothing but cool indifference, which clearly struck a nerve with Beatrice.

"You're jealous," she snapped, her carefully maintained facade cracking. "You simply won't admit it."

"Oh yes, indeed," I replied with deliberate lightness. "I'm terribly jealous that you'll become Lady Beauchamp, the mistress of William's manor. Particularly envious that you'll have the privilege of tending to his dear mother Margaret day and night." My voice dripped with such obvious sarcasm that even a child could have detected it.

With a smile that held more victory than mirth, I turned and walked away, my steps measured and unhurried across the castle courtyard.

These past months serving in the Holy Land had taught me much. Working alongside Melisande and the others to rebuild the fortress had given my days purpose. Though the labor was exhausting, it helped me learn to fold away the pain in my heart, tucking it into corners where it couldn't consume me.

Sometimes in the evenings, I would share wine with Prince Philip and the other commanders, discussing our visions for the Holy Land's future. He had finally trimmed his unruly beard, and I had to admit there was truth to the whispers that he was the most handsome nobleman in the Norman Kingdom. It was almost amusing to see the fierce warrior commander looking so refined.

Spring had finally arrived in the Holy Land, the melting snow dripped from the convent's eaves in a steady rhythm. In the military camp below, soldiers prepared for their return to the capital, their voices carrying up to where I stood in the infirmary window.

"Isabella," Melisande approached, her armor gleaming in the morning light. "We've decided to return to the capital for the triumph. Such celebrations are rare enough to warrant the journey."

She suddenly leaned in close, speaking in a low tone, “I hear that Beatrice is going to receive twenty lashes tomorrow.”

I nodded slightly, a bit taken aback—recently, I’d been so busy that I’d almost forgotten about it.

The afternoon brought an unexpected visitor. William stood in the convent's courtyard, his expression troubled. He had removed his House Beauchamp colors, wearing instead the simple tunic of a knight.

"Isabella," he bowed, though not as deeply as protocol demanded. "I must speak with you."

"Must you?" I continued arranging dried herbs, not looking at him.

"We're returning to the capital soon. She won't survive the journey if she's flogged now." His voice cracked slightly. "All the wrongs... they're my fault. I failed you..."

The dried lavender stem snapped between my fingers. I turned to face him, letting him see the cold fury in my eyes. "How dare you speak of failure to me? The blood of my entire family stains her hands, and you speak of mercy? I am the one person in this world who most wishes for her death."

"I've already failed you," he whispered, "I cannot fail her too..."

The laugh that escaped me was sharp enough to cut. "Then take her punishment yourself, Sir William. Prove your devotion with more than just empty words."

He flinched as if struck, but pressed on. "Isabella, please. For what we once shared-"

"We shared nothing but lies," I interrupted, my voice steady despite the trembling in my hands. "You chose her. Let her face the consequences of her choices as well."

I left him standing there, his pleas fading behind me as I made my way to the commander's tent. Prince Philip was bent over his workbench, a silk cloth partially covering whatever he was carving. The scent of cedar shavings filled the air.

"Your Highness," I curtsied, noting how he carefully adjusted the cloth before turning to face me.