They were passing the Exchequer, nearly to the keep. Escape was within her reach.
“Good morning, Robert,” Carleton called out beside her.
She turned to see Robert bounding down the steps. Damnation! Robert’s eyebrow went up a bare fraction as he looked from her to Carleton and back again. It took an act of will not to check her clothes again for bits of dirt and straw.
“I was just coming for you, Isobel,” he said. “The king wishes you to serve attendance upon him.”
The king? Although she saw King Henry every day in the hall, she’d yet to have a private audience with him.
“When shall I come?” Please, please, not today.
“He awaits you now.”
“Now?” This time, she did look down at herself. Her cloak was clean, but God knew what her gown looked like underneath.
“You haven’t time to change,” Robert said, interrupting her harried thoughts, “and you look lovely as you are.”
She colored, almost certain Robert guessed the cause of her dishevelment. Yet his eyes showed nothing but kind concern as he reached up and gave her headdress a firm tug to the left.
“There, now you are perfect.”
Robert, of course, was as practiced as Carleton at helping a lady with her headdress.
“I very much enjoyed our walk,” Carleton said and turned so Robert would not see his wink. “I look forward to the next time.”
If Robert were not there, she would have kicked him.
“The king wishes to see you alone,” Robert said.
“Alone? But I thought you would—”
“Believe me, this will be no more difficult than your meeting with Bishop Beaufort.” Robert took her arm and turned her toward the steps. “You do know Beaufort was his tutor?”
No comfort there! She wanted to protest, but she could hardly tell Robert she was not yet recovered from an early-morning fit of madness.
“Best not keep the king waiting,” Robert said, his hand at her back.
Above her, a guard held the door open. She took a deep breath and went up the steps to face the lion. Before going through the door, she glanced back just as Carleton turned to leave. She gaped in astonishment as Robert grabbed Carleton’s arm and spun him back around. With no trace of his usual bonhomie, Robert poked a finger into Carleton’s chest.
“Lady Hume?”
She dragged her gaze from the scene below and nodded to the guard. God help her, but she hoped Stephen Carleton was a good liar. Very likely, he was exceptional.
She had no time to dwell on it. After passing through a second set of doors, she was in the hall where King Henry held court in Normandy. A man in a simple brown cloak stood looking out one of the tall windows that faced the Old Palace. A monk?
She expected to find the hall full of people, with the king on the dais, dressed in his bright gold, red, and blue tunic emblazoned with row upon row of lions and fleurs-de-lis. She glanced up and down the enormous room. Not a soul was here, save for her and this monk.
Her breath caught. This was no monk, but the king himself.
Her hands shook as she sank into her curtsy. Only thirty years old, and he was legend. At thirteen he led men into battle. At sixteen he commanded entire armies. After being crowned at twenty-six, he unified the nobles and brought an end to the years of chaos and rebellion.
He created a common link among the classes by making English the language of his court in England. For the first time since before the Conqueror, royal edicts were in the language of the common people.
All of England lauded Henry for his skill at governing and admired him for his piety. But what they loved him for were his victories. He was their young warrior king. England was strong again and ready to face her enemies.
“You may rise,” the king said.
His cheerful countenance reassured her.
“Caen Castle was the favorite residence of my ancestor, William the Conqueror,” he said, letting his eyes travel along the beams overhead. “He built it more than three and a half centuries ago, not long before he crossed the channel to conquer England.”
“Then I can see why you made the castle your headquarters, sire,” she ventured.
He rewarded her with a smile. “Richard the Lionhearted met here with his barons before going on crusade.”
Isobel turned with him to gaze down the length of the hall. She imagined the room crowded with knights preparing to leave for the Holy Land. Men with serious faces and crimson crosses on their chests. The rumble of deep voices, the clang of metal.
“The man I have chosen for you is Philippe de Roche.”
The king’s words brought her back with a start. Of course, the king had not called her to discuss history. How foolish of her to forget.
“I summoned de Roche here from Rouen,” the king said, all trace of his former cheerfulness gone.
She fought the urge to run from the room. How much time did she have? It could never be enough.
“De Roche replies that he will come as soon as the roads are safe to travel,” the king said, biting out each word. “And he doubts they will be safe for some weeks.”
Whether the king faulted de Roche’s excuse as insincere or cowardly she could not tell. Liar or coward, the king was angry. Heaven help her.
“This from a man who rides with a guard of twenty!” The king took a deep breath, then spoke more calmly. “I hope the wait will not be a trial for you.”
“Not at all, sire.” Let him stay in Rouen forever.
“What has Sir Robert told you about Philippe de Roche?”
“Only that he is an important man in Rouen.” She willed the king to tell her more. Something to reassure her.
“Tell me, Lady Hume,” the king said, “do you know the reason your father turned traitor?”
The king’s words hit her like a blow. Her palms went damp with sweat. “I was only a child at the time…”
But the king was giving no reprieve today. He leaned forward, waiting for her answer.
“I believe he sided with the rebels because… because…” She licked her lips. Did he expect her to defend or blame her father?
“Because?” the king prodded.
What should she say? Was any answer safe? She could not think with her head pounding and the king staring at her.
“He did it because he thought the rebels would prevail,” she said, giving him the truth, “not because he thought they should.”
The king nodded his head vigorously. The right answer, thank God! She swallowed and wiped her palms on her cloak.
“It was a practical decision he made,” she said, then hastily added, “though grossly misguided, of course.”
“Then you will understand Philippe de Roche, for he is just such a man.” The king’s voice held such enthusiastic approval Isobel nearly staggered with relief.
“I have cause to suspect that his loyalty, like your father’s,” he said, cocking his head, “is based upon self-interest alone, rather than honor and duty.”
Isobel was reeling from the unexpected turns of the king’s conversation. Why speak to her of the reason for men’s loyalty?
“If the people of Rouen accept me as their sovereign lord, I shall welcome them to my bosom,” he said, crossing his hands over his heart. “But it is my duty to rule Normandy. If they do not open their gates to me, I shall starve them into submission.”
Anyone who saw the fire in King Henry’s eyes would be foolish not to believe he would do it.
“Philippe de Roche will save the people of Rouen much suffering if he can persuade them to avoid a siege,” he said. “But for de Roche to play his part, he must be kept loyal.”
She agreed to this marriage as a lesser of evils. Only now did she understand the responsibility that came with her choice.
“Your charge is to bind him to us,” the king said, pointing his forefinger at her. “Do not allow de Roche to misjudge where his interest lies.”
“I will do my best, sire
,” she said, though she despaired of knowing how she would accomplish it.
“Still, he may work against us,” the king said. “If you discover he does, I must learn of it at once.”
Just what did he expect of her? Isobel ran her tongue over her dry lips again. “Do you mean, sire, I should attempt to learn his true loyalty before the wedding?”
“If de Roche changes his allegiance, you shall send word to me,” the king said, his eyes boring into her. “Whether it is before or after your marriage.”
Chapter Seven
From the corner of her eye, Isobel watched Stephen Carleton laugh and talk with English knights, common soldiers, and local nobles as he wove his way through the crowded hall. People turned to him like iron filings to a lodestone as he passed.
He sidestepped the voluptuous Madame de Lisieux; the woman tracked him like a hound. In another moment, he was tête-à-tête in a corner with another fair-haired woman. From their frequent bursts of laughter, it was plain the two enjoyed each other’s company and knew each other well. Very well, indeed.
“Who is that?” she whispered to Robert.
Robert turned to follow her line of vision. “Who? The woman next to Stephen Carleton?”
“That is the one.” Isobel took a drink of her wine. “She is quite beautiful.” In sooth, the woman was exquisite.
Robert took a handful of sugared nuts from the bowl on the table. “Aye, Claudette is as lovely as her famous cousin.”
“She has a famous cousin?”
“Odette de Champdivers, mistress of the king of France.”
Isobel shook her head. “I have not heard of her.”
“You know King Charles is mad?” he said, eyes twinkling. “Well, Odette has been his mistress for twenty years without his knowing it.”
She laughed; she could listen to Robert spin tales all night.
“Odette was first the mistress of the king’s brother, Louis d’Orléans. When the queen took the dashing Orléans as her lover, the two of them sent Odette to the king’s bed in her stead—dressed in the queen’s clothes.”
“The king was deceived?”
“Every night for twenty years!” Robert shook his head. “They say he’s never been the wiser, and no one will risk the queen’s wrath by telling him.”
“And Claudette?” Isobel asked, bringing the conversation back to the woman whose hand rested on Carleton’s arm.
“Claudette is more clever than her cousin. She’s saved her money and kept her independence.” Robert gave Isobel a rueful smile. “But I forget myself, speaking so freely with you.”
“I am glad you feel you can,” she said. “I do not like being treated as a child.”
“Then I will tell you,” Robert said, turning his gaze to Carleton, “a man may enjoy a courtesan’s company in public without also employing her services in private.”
How did Robert always guess what she was thinking?
“Still,” he said, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth, “Stephen is not a man afraid to play with fire.”
Playing with fire. Heaven help her. Each time she saw him, the episode in the storeroom came back to her. She could almost feel his mouth on hers again, his body pressed against her, his hands…
God help her, she could think of little else. Was it possible her new husband could make her feel like that? Was it a sin to hope so fervently it might be so?
She reached for her cup and tilted her head back to take a large gulp.
“Stephen’s family is anxious to get him settled,” Robert said, “before some husband kills him.”
She choked, almost spitting wine across the table. Between coughs she asked, “He has affairs with married women?”
“I shock you again,” Robert said, patting her back. “A fine chaperone I am proving to be.”
It came as no surprise Carleton had affairs. What made her inhale her wine was the sudden image of him actually kissing another woman the way he’d kissed her.
“For a man who wishes to avoid a wedding at all costs,” Robert explained, “married women are the safest choice.”
“He could abstain.”
Robert’s burst of laughter caused heads to turn in their direction, including Carleton’s. “That would not have occurred to me, but of course you are right.” He took her hand and kissed it as he met Carleton’s eyes across the room. “I do hope I am there when you suggest it to him.”
As if in answer to the challenge, Stephen Carleton left the exquisite Claudette and strode across the room to them. His words of greeting were polite, but the devilish smile he gave her made it impossible for Isobel to utter a single word.
He sat on the other side of Robert and fell into easy conversation with him. “By summer we will control most of Normandy, including your ancestral home.”
“It will be strange to return after so many years,” Robert said. “And what of you, Stephen? When will you go to Northumberland to reclaim your family lands?”
Isobel could not help herself. She leaned forward and asked, “Your family lost their lands?”
Carleton’s eyebrows shot up. “You did not know? My father joined the northern rebels, same as yours.”
So he knew about her father. “But your brother is close to the king, is he not?”
“Lucky for me, William fought for the Lancasters,” Stephen said, grinning at her. “William is my half brother. Since he was the only relative not tainted, our mother sent me to live with him when I was twelve.”
“But your father’s lands were confiscated?”
“Of course.” He shrugged as if it were no concern to him.
“You’ve only to ask,” Robert said, “and the king will grant them back to you.”
King Henry was allowing most of the former rebels, or their families, to buy back their lands. She had paid the price for the return of her family’s lands. What price did Stephen pay? What would cause the king to forgive such a debt?
“We have more in common than you knew,” Stephen said, raising his cup to her. “We were both born of foolish, traitorous fathers.”
Was his father’s treachery not a burden to him? What of his mother? Isobel longed to ask…
The person sitting on her other side tugged at her elbow. She turned to find the pleasant, round face of Sir John Popham, a boring man if there ever was one.
“Have you a guess as to how many English merchants will come to Caen to set up shop in the spring?”
When she shook her head, the man began to talk at length about trade. Since all Popham required of her was an occasional nod, she could give most of her attention to the conversation between Robert and Stephen.
“William says he intends to return to England in the spring,” she heard Robert say.
“Aye,” Stephen said, “he’ll not be away from Catherine any longer than he must.”
“And who can blame him? Your brother is a lucky man.”
Robert was saying this?
“That he is,” Stephen agreed, “that he is.”
Who was this woman that she had these two philanderers sighing and envying her husband?
Isobel remembered to give Popham another nod and leaned closer to Robert.
“William says you delay because you fear Catherine.”
Stephen’s laugh rang out. “I do not fear Catherine, I adore her! But she is intent on seeing me married—and you know how she is.”
“That woman has an iron will,” Robert said, “and she will bend you to it.”
The two men laughed again! Despite the disparaging words, there was nothing but affection and admiration in their voices.
“My only hope is that William will get her with child again.” Isobel heard the smile in Stephen’s voice. “A new baby might divert her.”
“Pray for twins,” Robert said. “Pray for twins.”
The next thing Isobel knew, Carleton was standing behind her. Her breath caught as she tilted her head to look up at him. Why must he be so handsome?
“Popham, you are boring this lady to death,” Carleton said. “If you truly must talk all evening of barrels of wine and bales of wool, let us go off to a corner and spare the others.”
Isobel was shocked by Carleton’s directness, but Popham laughed.
“You are right, of course.” Popham stood and said to Isobel, “I don’t know what I would do without him.”
She had no notion what Popham was talking about.
Without warning, Stephen leaned down to her. His hair brushed her cheek, making her heart race.
She felt his breath in her ear as he whispered, “You owe me for this.”
Before she could recover, he took her hand. She looked at the long, strong fingers and remembered them in her hair. On her breast. She swallowed and looked up into Carleton’s face. His eyes went dark; he was not even trying to mask that he was thinking the same thoughts as she.
Heat seared through her body as he pressed his lips to her fingers. He held her hand a trifle too long for courtesy, but she did not pull away.
Robert sat back and watched the pair. Stephen, who was usually so good at maintaining a facade, was no better than Isobel. He had never seen Stephen like this over a woman before.
The two of them were playing with fire, all right. No matter the king’s affection, he would not take it lightly if Stephen jeopardized his plans. Stephen would find a cuckolded husband was nothing compared to an angry king.
Robert suspected things had not gone too far—yet. Still, the two were courting disaster. The fools may as well have been shouting it from the rooftops.
Claudette saw it, of course. There was not much that remarkable woman missed. And Marie de Lisieux, who had none of Claudette’s subtlety or discretion, was watching the pair like a hawk.
Not for the first time, he wondered which faction Marie was spying for. Tonight, however, a baser motive even than politics drove Marie. ’Twas a wonder Isobel did not feel the scorch of Marie’s eyes on her skin.
Praise God, William was no more perceptive than the king in such matters. The situation was far too delicate to bring William into it. A subtle hand was needed, not a storming of the gates.
Knight of Pleasure Page 6
