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Isabella barely notices the dust that clings to her long sleeves, throwing her arms around the dog’s neck and kissing him gently. The beast whines and licks at her ear, then her hand. “I haven’t a single treat for you,” she scolds but her voice is lifted with laughter and the licks continue. The drone of government continues all around her, but in this place, beneath this tree at least, there is something to do. Her father won’t even know that she’s gone.
“Would you like to give her a treat?”
The man sitting to the other side of the tree is dressed in fine clothes, but all the men at this event wear fine clothes. His voice has a sweet accent that she can’t place and he does indeed extend his hand, a bit of smoked bacon for the pup.
“Hmm,” she considers, pretending not to stare at this stranger who dares to interrupt her perfect escape. “I’m not sure that our brachet has done anything to warrant a treat. You know, you mustn’t spoil a hunting dog.”
“A wise thing to consider,” he says, but tosses the bit of meat to the dog anyway.
Isabella’s forehead wrinkles with frustration, “And if she starts to stray? You might give a kiss to a mercenary for the work you’ve done.”
He smiles and it lifts all the way to his eyes, “Perhaps a lady with too much wisdom. Too much wisdom for me.” The man stands and brushes the dirt from his clothes and comes closer to her, taking his turn to pet the now very content hound. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Not at all,” she says with a bit of a huff, “My father made me attend. He says that it’s good for a lady to have perspective on the situation, now that there is new King in England. But it has almost all been just paperwork. I should have pressed my father to bring a set for chess.”
“You play?”
“Yes and very well,” she answers, though her cheeks color pink. She does play very well. But something about saying so out loud – to a stranger no less – is embarrassing. She’s come nearly to ten years, practically the lady of her great house, and no one in Angouleme would speak to her like this. So casually.
“And you like to read?”
She lifts her eyes from the hound and turns completely towards the man beside her, “I like when my father reads to me.” He’s closer than she thought he’d be and his eyes are soft, as if he cannot stop smiling. He isn’t tall, but he’s clearly strong – the way the old count in Poitou was strong – his chest wide and pressing against the fine stitching on his tunic. “My lord, I’m engaged to be married. It isn’t proper for you to ask so many questions. I don’t like to be teased.”
“Of course not,” he answers and lifts his hands in false surrender, “I wouldn’t tease a lady of such refined pastimes.”
She feels the color in her cheeks deepen and travel up her to the tips of her ears. He is teasing her. “My lord, I will not be – I shall never speak to you again if you –“
“Not even once?”
“Not ever again,” she insists and turns completely around to the pup, petting her and definitely not looking at this careless stranger.
“Not even to scold me?” he says. His voice lifts with delight and she burns down to her toes.
“You deserve much scolding.”
His laugh is dripping honey behind her and he slips his fingers against hers, pressing another piece of smoked meat into her hand. “She is a good brachet. She’s given me two litters of very good dogs and only nips when I’ve gone a bit far. A lady like that should be treated – “
“My lord, the King your cousin is looking for you,” approaches a man with an accent even more foreign than the stranger’s. Isabella refuses to watch him leave, refuses to bid him a good day. Instead, she sets her afternoon on teaching the hound to point.
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“She is… lovely, like you said,” John answers, biting his knuckle and trying to think. “But engaged to be married already.” He pauses for a moment, “What trap have you laid for me?”
Philip leans in, closing the distance between them and kissing John’s temple, “Should I not be happy for my oldest friend? Can I not simply want him to be glad?”