A knight, brave and true, good and kind. The description of a Camelot knight came to her, quite inexplicably. Flushing, she shook her head.
“After your father’s… misjudgments… of the past,” the bishop said, his nostrils flaring ever so slightly, “such a marriage would do much to restore your family to the king’s good graces.”
“May I have time to consider, Your Grace?”
“Of course.” With a glimmer in his eye he said, “Soon the crossing will be impossible until spring, but I am sure you wish to spend the long winter months here, with your father.”
Oh, he was a clever man.
The bishop rose to his feet. “I leave for Westminster in three days. Until then, you may send a message to me here.”
With no further word, he swept out of the room.
Chapter Three
Duchy of Normandy
October 1417
Sir Stephen Carleton awoke to a blinding headache. He lay still, listening to the distant sound of wind and rain, and tried to recall where he was. Aye, he was with King Henry’s army in Normandy. In the town of Caen, in fact.
But where, precisely, in Caen?
Giving up, he slit one eye open and winced at the dim light. It came through an arrow slit, so he was somewhere in the castle. But this was not his bedchamber. And what was he doing in bed when it was yet daylight—
He groaned. Gingerly, he turned his head for confirmation. Upon seeing the bare shoulder and tousled blond hair, he squeezed his eyes shut again. Marie de Lisieux. God help him, she was a lot of woman to forget.
He edged his arm out from under her, taking great care not to disturb her. Pleased at his success, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed—much, much too quickly.
Resting his head in his hands to recover, he looked down at his limp member and wondered if it would ever rise again. The woman was insatiable. No wonder her husband turned a blind eye to her infidelities; the man was grateful for the respite.
How had he ended up in bed with her again? A wave of self-loathing washed over him, making him desperate for a drink. Ironic, since drink was what had gotten him here. But drink kept at bay the visions that plagued him.
Aye, drink helped. And women, of course.
There were plenty of men to drink with in a town overrun with soldiers. And, for him, there were always willing women. Which one hardly mattered. He had even less expectation of finding a woman who could make him happy than he did of achieving knightly glory in this wretched war.
He wondered what it would be like to be with a woman who was strong and brave and clever. A woman who would not settle for him being less than the man he could be.
Could she save him? Was he worth saving?
He knew only one woman like that, and he did not expect to meet another. Still, he enjoyed women. Talking with them. Flirting with them. Bedding them. He did not have to be fully sober, however, to know the one asleep beside him was a mistake.
Keeping a watchful eye on Marie’s still form, he eased himself down from the bed. She slept like the dead, the saints be praised. When he leaned over to gather his clothes, his head throbbed so violently he feared he would be sick. He waited for his stomach to settle before pulling the shirt and tunic over his head. Teetering on one foot, he nearly fell as he struggled into his leggings.
He grabbed his boots in one hand, his belt and sword in the other, and made his escape.
God’s beard, the corridor was freezing!
He could see now he was in the castle’s keep. But whose bedchamber was that? It would be just like Marie to take him to another lover’s bed. The woman thrived on trouble.
Caen Castle was huge, with numerous buildings scattered across acres of bailey yard. The walk to the main gate was almost long enough to clear his head. When he finally crossed the bridge into the Old Town, he entered the first public house he found.
He was still there hours later, drinking with a boisterous group of soldiers, when he felt eyes upon him. The familiar form of his half brother, Lord William FitzAlan, filled the doorway. When the other men noticed the great commander, they fumbled to their feet and offered to make room. William kept his gaze on Stephen.
Stephen poured more wine into his cup and ignored his brother. When one of his companions called out, “May God bring us more victories,” he did not raise his cup with the others. But he drank it down all the same.
He poured another and decided to make his own toast.
“God grant us victory,” he said, clutching the edge of the table, “even if we must starve women and children to achieve it.”
Before he saw William move, his brother had an iron grip on his arm and was leading him out the door. Outside, William slammed him up against the wall.
William cupped Stephen’s chin and jaw in his hand. With his face so close their noses nearly touched, he said, “God in heaven, Stephen, what am I to do with you?”
Drunk or sober, Stephen would not let any other man lay hands on him. But this was William. “ ’Tis a long time since I’ve been your responsibility, big brother.”
“I have served as both father and brother to you for far too many years to stand by and let you do this to yourself!”
William released his hold and leaned heavily against the wall beside Stephen. In a quiet voice he said, “We did what we could. You must try to put it behind you.”
Stephen did not want to talk about what happened the day the siege of Caen broke and the English army swarmed through the town. By the time he and William reached the market square, English soldiers were massacring the crowd of women, children, and old men gathered there. He and William rode through the melee, swinging their swords in the air, shouting and pushing, until at last the order to halt was heard and obeyed.
The images of that day would not leave him.
When it was over, Stephen walked through the carnage in the square. The wails of women filled his ears, and the smell of blood choked him as he stepped over broken bodies of children and old men. When he looked down, a child’s severed arm lay before his bloody boot. He leaned against a wall and vomited until his knees were weak.
“This is not the path to glory I expected when we came to fight the French,” he said.
“King Henry’s army slaughtering old men, women, and children!” William said, his voice hard with anger. “I never thought to see it.”
“You must have known. Why else did you order Jamie to remain outside the city walls that day?” Despite the accusation in his voice, Stephen was immensely grateful his nephew did not witness the slaughter in the square.
“The lad is only fifteen,” William objected. “ ’Tis true I suspected trouble, though not as foul as that. The men were full of bloodlust after our knight was burned to death.”
The city defenders had thrown bales of burning straw onto the knight, who lay injured in the ditch at the base of the wall. Unable to reach their man, listening to his screams, the English sat by their campfires in frustrated rage.
“And the king?” Stephen asked, though he knew the answer.
“He believes the people brought the wrath of God upon themselves,” William said in a grim voice. “They had only to submit to him as their rightful sovereign to escape their fate.”
“The women and children had no part in the city’s decision to hold out against us.”
“The killing was against the king’s orders, and he’ll not allow it to happen again.” William took in a deep breath and let it out. “The other towns will fall quickly now.”
“So the slaughter served a purpose,” Stephen said, his voice tight. “Our king is nothing if not strategic.”
“You are incautious with your opinions,” William said, though without much force. “If the people here had the sense God gave them, they would welcome us. The French nobility are a blight upon the land. Both Burgundy and Armagnac factions pillage the countryside for their own enrichment.”
“ ’Tis a shame the French armies will no
t fight us. I hoped to win great battles for England.” Embarrassed, Stephen elbowed William and tried for a lighter tone. “Like my famous brother.”
“By God, I never thought I would miss fighting the Scots,” William said as he heaved himself away from the wall. “Come, I’ll walk with you to the castle. You need to get your sleep—you have an appointment with the king early on the morrow.”
Stephen felt the remaining effects of the drink drain out of him. “Called in a favor for your feckless little brother, have you?”
“Feckless perhaps, but hardly little.” William clouted him on the back. “And I called in no favors. God knows why, but the king has seen something special in you since you were a lad. He says he has an assignment for you.”
“What is it?”
William shrugged. “He did not say.”
They walked in companionable silence through the castle gate and into the castle grounds. During the day the bailey yard was busy with soldiers, but it was peaceful this time of night. They were nearly to the Old Palace, where Stephen shared a chamber with his nephew, before William spoke again.
“You should ask the king’s permission to return to Northumberland. ’Tis time you claimed the Carleton lands.”
“I am not so foolish as that! Mother and Catherine will be relentless, once I have the property, to make a good match.” Why was his unmarried state such a thorn in their sides?
“They want to see you settled before you fall into serious trouble over some woman.” William shook his head. “And they are right. ’Tis bound to happen.”
Stephen ignored the remark; he’d heard it before.
After a time, William said, “There is much to be said for a life with wife and children, on lands of one’s own. God knows, Catherine is the source of all my happiness.”
“As I’ve always told you,” Stephen said, forcing a laugh, “if you find me a woman like her, I’ll be wed as soon as the banns can be posted.”
Catherine was beautiful, courageous, full of opinions and laughter. He’d adored her from the age of twelve, when his mother sent him to live with William and his new wife.
“I wish to God Catherine were here now,” William said, his tone sour. “You would not behave like this if she were here to see it.”
Stephen shrugged, acknowledging the truth of it. In his youth, it had always been easier to face William’s anger than Catherine’s disappointment. Even now, he would do anything to please her.
Well, almost anything. At least here in Normandy, he was free of her attempts to get him betrothed to some pliant and exceedingly dull young lady of good family and fortune.
Aye, he knew he must marry. But he was only five and twenty! With luck, he could put that duty off for many years.
Stephen sat in the Great Hall of the Exchequer, drumming his fingers. Damn. He should have risen early enough to join the king for Mass in the chapel.
At the sound of boots, he jumped to his feet. King Henry swept into the hall, trailed by several soldiers who served as his personal guard. With a curt nod, the king released Stephen from his bow.
Stephen sighed inwardly as the king scrutinized him in the long silence that followed. Though he had taken care in dressing for this ungodly early appointment, there was naught he could do about his bloodshot eyes. King Henry indulged in neither women nor drink; he had little tolerance for those who did.
“How can I be of service to you, sire?” Stephen smiled and gave a deferential nod to temper his boldness in speaking first.
“Perhaps you could explain to me,” the king said, clasping his hands behind his back, “why a man who is so easily amused must devote so much time to seeking amusement.”
Stephen dropped the smile. Had he been so indiscreet that word of his behavior had reached even the king’s ears?
“I have better use for your talents, Stephen Carleton.”
Stephen detected no trace of sarcasm in the king’s tone. A good sign, perhaps. “I am, as always, at your disposal, sire.”
He wondered again what assignment the king had for him. He desperately wanted a military command, but he would be satisfied with rounding up renegades. Anything, so long as it was dangerous and diverting.
“My subjects here must see that I come not to conquer, but to rule as their rightful sovereign. ’Tis time to establish order and good governance in the lands we have thus far reclaimed. To that end, I have appointed Sir John Popham as bailli of Caen. I want you to assist him.”
Stephen could not believe what he was hearing. “You want me to be… to be…” He had to grope for the word, and it felt distasteful in his mouth when he found it. “An administrator? But I am a skilled knight, sire.”
“You would make a fine commander, as well,” the king said in a flat voice. “But until a French army is willing to face us in battle, I have more commanders than I need.”
Two years before, the English army decimated the cream of French chivalry at the Battle of Agincourt in a defeat so resounding it would be remembered through the ages. The French commanders had studiously avoided fighting the young English king head-to-head ever since.
“What I need is a man of wit and charm who can earn the people’s trust,” the king said. “Your charge is to hear their complaints, resolve their disputes fairly, and convince them they are better off under English rule.”
Sweet Lamb of God. “I am glad to be of service, sire.”
“Leave us,” the king called out. When the heavy doors closed behind the soldiers keeping guard at the entrance, the king said, “I knew I chose the right man. No one would guess from your countenance you are seething.”
The smile on the king’s face brought to mind a cat with an injured bird under his paw.
“That deceptive charm,” the king continued, “and your much-lauded talent for learning secrets, will prove valuable in your second assignment, as well.”
It was a family joke that no secret was safe from him. Stephen tried to guess which of his loved ones saw fit to share this with the king. His musings were stopped dead as a panel in the wall behind the king swung open. When a tall, elegantly dressed man with distinctive white-blond hair stepped through the opening, Stephen re-sheathed his sword.
“Robert!” Stephen shouted. “What are you doing in Normandy? Does William know?”
He and Robert thumped each other on the back, then stepped back to look more closely at each other. Though Robert’s face showed a few more laugh lines, Stephen didn’t doubt women fell at his feet—and into his bed—with the same regularity.
“Sir Robert now,” the king said. “After twenty years, our friend has given up the guise of traveling musician. He has returned to claim his rightful place as a nobleman of Normandy.”
“You are full of surprises,” Stephen said, laughing.
Robert grinned back. “How it would grieve my uncle to know I’ve inherited his estates! I went into hiding because he was determined to have me murdered.” Robert leaned close to Stephen and whispered, “His second wife favored me a bit too much.”
“Despite his change in circumstances,” the king said, “Robert has agreed to continue his service to me.”
Steven knew what that “service” was. As a troubadour, Robert traveled widely and was welcomed everywhere. That had made him a useful spy in the years when England was roiled in rebellion and King Henry was yet Prince Harry.
“I cannot tell you how many evenings the family spent speculating about who you truly were,” Stephen said.
Robert’s eyes crinkled with good humor. “We can speak more of that another time. Now we must discuss the king’s plans for you. We shall be working together, my friend.”
When the king dismissed Stephen and signaled for him to remain, Robert felt no sense of alarm, no foreboding. Though they were very different men, their relationship was one of long-standing and mutual respect.
“Order and good government will not be enough to bind Normandy to England,” Harry began. “We must have marriage allianc
es among the nobility, as well.”
Apprehension crept up Robert’s spine. Marriage alliances? Could the king mean—good God, the saints protect him!
“I received a letter today from my uncle, Bishop Beaufort, regarding one such young lady. If the weather holds, she could arrive any day.”
A drop of sweat trickled down Robert’s back. “A young lady, sire? How young?” Please God, not some young innocent. He was years and years too old for that.
“She is a widow of two and twenty.”
Better than fifteen or sixteen. But only slightly. He must think of an excuse, but what? Blast it, if he were yet just a troubadour, the king would never ask this of him.
“I want your advice,” Harry said, touching the points of his steepled fingers to his chin. “Which of the French noblemen who have pledged loyalty to me should I bind more closely through a marriage alliance?”
Praise God! Relief coursed through Robert’s body. He hoped it did not show in his face.
“The only city that lies between my army and Paris is Rouen,” the king said. “I want a man with influence in that city. A man who might convince them it is in their interest to surrender quickly.”
Robert sucked in a breath to steady himself and set his mind to the king’s question.
“Philippe de Roche,” he said, glad the answer was so easy. “He is a powerful man in Rouen. And, as a member of the Burgundy faction, he is allied with us for the time being. From what I hear, his only true loyalty is to himself.”
“Then he is no different from most of these French nobles,” the king said, disapproval heavy in his voice.
“De Roche will not wish to bind himself to an English lady,” Robert said, “until he is certain which way the wind blows.”
“Since most of his lands are under our control, he will agree to the marriage,” the king said with a smile. “But will it keep him loyal?”
Robert shrugged. “It will, at least, preclude him from making a marriage alliance unfavorable to us.”
“I have reason to hope for more,” the king said. “My uncle reports that this particular lady is blessed with both a strong will and great beauty.”
Knight of Pleasure Page 3
