He might need William’s help. But not yet.
Chapter Eight
Isobel dropped her embroidery in her lap, annoyed her thoughts had drifted again to that damn Stephen Carleton. Small wonder, really. She had little else to occupy herself.
Where was de Roche? She stared out her narrow window, trying to imagine him riding through the keep’s gate with twenty men behind him. Each day he did not come, she was torn between injury and relief.
She’d been a traitor’s daughter; she did not want to be a traitor’s wife. What would she do if de Roche changed allegiances after they wed? Caught between duty to husband and king, which would she choose? Either choice would be dangerous for her.
Her attention was caught by a lone rider trotting into the inner bailey yard below. There was something familiar about the way he sat his horse…
“Geoffrey!” She let her needlework fall to the floor in a tangle and flew to her door. In her hurry, she nearly tumbled down the stairs, which were built at uneven heights to trip attackers. A moment later, she was out of the keep and running across the yard to her brother.
“I am filthy,” Geoffrey warned as she leapt into his arms. He held her close and said against her hair, “I came as quickly as I could.”
“Thank God you are safe,” she said, her eyes stinging. “I have been so worried.”
“You should not fret so over me, Issie, I am a grown man now.” He set her on her feet and took her hands. “Is it possible my sister has grown still more beautiful?”
“Would you scold me if I said my husband’s death was good for my health?”
“I would,” he said, “though I know you suffered with him.”
As a man, Geoffrey could never understand how much she suffered. She did not want him to.
“Come,” she said, taking his arm, “I will show you the way to the stables. Then I want you to meet Sir Robert, the kind man who has been looking after me.”
She paused to lean her head against his shoulder and smile up at him. “I am so very glad you are here.”
“He certainly took his time in coming.”
The unexpected voice came from behind them. Isobel whirled around to find Stephen Carleton standing a few feet away, hands on hips, looking anything but his usual good-humored self.
“What kept you?” Carleton demanded, his eyes hard on Geoffrey. “Your delay has been a grave insult to this lady.”
She’d never seen Carleton angry before. With temper sparking in his eyes, he looked different. Dangerous.
He turned his searing gaze on her. “I did not take you to be such a forgiving woman.”
“I am sorry if I have offended you in some way,” Geoffrey said, drawing Carleton’s attention back to him. “I came as soon as I received the news my sister was here.”
“Your sister?” The expression on Carleton’s face showed first surprise, then delight.
“I thought you were that unworthy Frenchman of hers,” he said, coming over and clapping Geoffrey on the back. “Welcome to Caen! I am Stephen Carleton, a friend of your sister’s.”
“You thought he was—” She choked on her words as anger, hot and dark, rose in her chest. “You thought I would embrace a man I did not know in the middle of the courtyard!”
“Better in a busy courtyard than a quiet place,” Carleton said with a wink. “Luckily, I did not see you embrace him, or your brother would be dusting off his backside—if he could get up at all.”
She wanted to slap him. “What concern is it of yours?”
Geoffrey, ever the peacemaker, said in a soothing voice, “He was only being chivalrous, trying to protect you.” He took hold of her arm and began pulling her away. “Come, Issie, it was a hard ride, and I’ve not eaten in hours.”
When she glared at Carleton over her shoulder, he blew her a kiss. The man was maddening.
What madness, Stephen asked himself, had taken hold of him? When he walked through the keep’s gate and saw her clinging to a stranger’s arm, her face lit by a rare, radiant smile, he stormed across the yard intent on beating the man to a bloody pulp.
Good God, he could hardly credit it.
Nay. He knew damn well what made him do it. Mindless, raging jealousy. He thought the man was de Roche and that Isobel was looking at him the way she looked at Stephen the day they met.
And he simply could not bear it.
He did not want to contemplate what that meant. Regardless, he intended to get to know her brother.
Isobel drew her cloak close against the early morning chill. “I was afraid you would forget your promise to practice with me before breakfast,” she said, squeezing Geoffrey’s arm.
“And risk my big sister’s wrath?”
They walked in companionable silence, their feet crunching on the frozen ground.
When Geoffrey spoke again, his tone was serious. “Have you been going out alone, Isobel?”
There was only one person who could have told him. “Did that Stephen Carleton say something to you?”
“Aye, Sir Stephen gave me quite a lecture on the risks,” he said, “and on my duties as a brother.”
“How dare he!”
“There was no mistaking the man’s message, but he was quite cordial,” Geoffrey said. “He is an engaging fellow. Both he and his nephew seem to be good men.”
She snorted her disagreement. “Stephen Carleton lacks all seriousness of purpose.”
“He seemed quite serious about wishing to kill me yesterday,” Geoffrey said, fighting a smile.
She remembered how dangerous Stephen had looked. Dangerous, and impossibly handsome.
“A vile temper does not improve a frivolous man.” She sounded insufferable, but she couldn’t stop herself. “He is, by all accounts, an unrepentant adulterer and drunkard. For all your piety, I am surprised you are willing to overlook his sins.”
“You should not believe all you hear,” Geoffrey said. “And ’tis not your place nor mine to judge. ‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.’ ”
She decided not to test her brother’s grace by telling him that the man he was defending had lain on top of her and kissed her senseless. That was a secret best not shared.
“What makes you smile, Issie?”
“Nothing.” God help her, but she did not regret those kisses nearly as much as she ought. “Let us speak no more of Stephen Carleton.”
“But he—”
She held her hand up. “Please, Geoffrey, do not.”
When they reached the storeroom, she ducked through the low entrance and removed her cloak. When she turned to find a place to lay it down, she was so startled she screamed.
Stephen Carleton sat perched atop a stack of grain sacks.
“Good day, Lady Hume,” he greeted her, as if he were quite used to women shrieking at the sight of him. “You remember my nephew, Jamie Rayburn?”
Noticing the young man now, she gave him a stiff nod.
“I meant to tell you that Sir Stephen kindly offered to practice with us today.” Ignoring her glare, Geoffrey added, “We are fortunate, for he is well known for his skill.”
“Please just call me Stephen,” Carleton said, dropping down to the ground. “Your sister does.”
She was going to argue, but this little falsehood was the least of his crimes.
When her brother went to chat with Jamie, Carleton came to stand beside her. “Stop scowling,” he said in a low voice. “You are safe with both Jamie and your brother here. I promise, you will enjoy yourself.”
She was tense and distracted at first, but after a time she became absorbed in the play. They traded partners frequently, so she had opportunity to practice with each of them. Stephen—despite herself, she did think of him as Stephen now—was by far the best swordsman and teacher.
“I’m starving! ’Tis long past time for breakfast.”
Jamie’s announcement caught Isobel by surprise. The hour had passed so quickly.
Jamie sheathed his sword and picked up his cloak fr
om the corner. “Shall we meet again tomorrow?”
Geoffrey gave her a sideways glace and waited.
She smiled and nodded. So long as Geoffrey and Jamie came, too, what could be the harm?
Chapter Nine
November 1417
As Robert helped her into her cloak, Isobel heard the bells of L’Abbaye-aux-Hommes, the great abbey William the Conqueror built west of town, calling the monks to compline. Geoffrey was there tonight, praying with the monks. He would rise with them twice in the night, for matins and for lauds, then again at dawn for prime, before returning to the castle.
“How did you persuade me to go with you to one of your social gatherings in the town tonight?” she said. “I am sure I shall hate it.”
“Who knows? An evening with the rich and dissolute may hold surprises,” Robert said as he opened the door for her. “What do you say to walking? The night is fine and clear.”
She enjoyed the long walk through the Old Town. By the time they crossed the bridge into the New Town, however, her feet were frozen. They were nearly to the far wall of the city before Robert stopped at the gate of an enormous house.
“Did I mention,” Robert asked without looking at her, “that our hosts are Lord and Lady de Lisieux?”
“Marie de Lisieux! You know very well I would not have come if you told me.”
“Come, you must admit to some curiosity,” Robert said, giving her a wink. “I promise it will be entertaining.”
As soon as they entered the house, Isobel noted with satisfaction that it was garishly decorated, with costly but unattractive tapestries and too much furniture.
“Hideous, isn’t it?” Robert said in her ear. “Wait until you meet the husband.”
Isobel had to struggle not to laugh. “You are a wicked man, Robert.”
The food at supper was like the furnishings: rich, but tasteless. The bread was not quite fresh, the fruit green, the meats undercooked and laden with a heavy gravy with an unusual gray cast to it. Isobel was as hungry when she got up as when she sat down.
After supper, the guests dispersed into small groups throughout the public rooms of the house. Robert settled with Isobel on a bench at the back of the largest room and proceeded to tell her unseemly tidbits about the people in the room.
“Do keep your voice down!” she admonished him.
Her laughter caught in her throat when she turned and saw a late guest entering the room.
“You did not tell me Stephen was coming.”
Robert raised his eyebrows. “You need to be warned?”
“Of course not.”
Still, the very last thing she wanted to do was watch Marie de Lisieux drape herself over Stephen all evening. The woman had her hands on him already.
“You seem tense, my dear,” Robert said.
“You are mistaken.”
Over the weeks, she’d become accustomed to Stephen’s company—and to ignoring the attraction between them. Of course, she’d not been foolish enough to risk being alone with him again.
Geoffrey and Jamie met her for sword practice every morning, regular as rain. Stephen came less often—no doubt it was difficult to rise early after a late night of drinking… and God knew what else. Despite her caution, she found herself warming to him each time he joined them. He was a patient teacher and had charm and wit enough for two.
How could a man of such talent fritter his time away with the most degenerate members of the local nobility? It was such a waste! And there was always some woman at hand, tittering at his jokes and giving him meaningful glances.
Robert raised his arm and called out, “Stephen, over here!”
Stephen distracted Marie de Lisieux with a blinding smile as he removed her hand from his shoulder and squeezed past.
Isobel took a deep breath to fortify herself. Was it to annoy her or to tease Marie that he wedged himself between her and Robert on the bench rather than take the chair opposite? He would amuse himself.
“I am glad you are here,” Robert told him. “I must leave for a time, and I do not like to leave Isobel alone. You know what these people can be like.”
“I am surprised you brought her.” Stephen’s tone was sharp.
“Stop talking as if I were not here,” Isobel snapped. “I am not a child to be passed from nursemaid to nursemaid.”
She was so annoyed she could almost forget the heat of Stephen’s thigh against hers. Almost.
“Where are you going?” she asked Robert.
He winked one sea-green eye at her. “I’d rather not say.”
An assignation. Was he not getting a bit old for that? Of course, men like him—and Stephen—never stopped.
The two men stood and spoke in low voices. As they talked, Isobel noticed the lovely courtesan Claudette walk past the entrance to the room and catch Robert’s eye. Robert took his leave then, and Stephen slumped into the chair opposite Isobel and folded his arms across his chest.
To make conversation she said, “Sir John Popham mentioned again how much he values your assistance with the administration of the town.” She’d been surprised by Popham’s effusive praise. Apparently, Stephen did more with his time than charm women and drink to excess.
Stephen shrugged and scanned the room. Obviously, his work with Popham was not something he wished to discuss with her. He did not, however, have to be rude. What was the matter with him tonight? It was not her fault he was stuck with her.
Despite herself, she felt hurt. She thought they’d become friends, of sorts, over the weeks.
A handsome older woman bedecked in jewels and crimson silk appeared at Stephen’s side. When the woman leaned down and whispered in his ear, he squeezed her hand and nodded.
“Do not move,” he told Isobel as he got up. “I shan’t be long, but there is someone I must speak to.”
Speak to? Ha! She watched Stephen saunter out of the room with the woman. Who did these men think they were, telling her to stay put while they cavorted with all manner of women?
She felt awkward sitting by herself. She had little experience with gatherings such as this. Visitors to Hume Castle were few, and her husband rarely took her anywhere else. She was immensely grateful, then, when Monsieur de Lisieux rushed over to join her.
“To abandon such a beautiful lady!” de Lisieux said, throwing his hands up. “Truly, your friends do not deserve you.”
The broken veins and blotchy color of his face showed the signs of excessive drink. Who could blame the poor man, married to that wretched Marie?
“Perhaps you will let me show you the house while they are gone?” de Lisieux suggested.
“You are too kind.” She took the arm de Lisieux offered and smiled at the thought of Stephen returning to find her gone.
De Lisieux stopped at a side table to pour her a large cup of wine. He filled it so full she had to drink several large gulps for fear of spilling it. As they moved through the crowded rooms, de Lisieux pointed out various features of the house. Isobel made polite noises of appreciation.
Stephen was certainly taking his time.
She had a nodding acquaintance with a number of the guests from their visits to the castle. De Lisieux, of course, knew everyone. Their progress was slow as they stopped to chat with other guests milling about. Along the way, de Lisieux picked up a flagon of wine, and she let him refill her glass from it.
When neither Stephen nor Robert had returned by the time she and de Lisieux circled back to the front of the house, she was angry enough to spit. Where were they? She was more than ready to leave. If she had to “ooh” and “ahh” at one more ugly family portrait, she might scream.
“You must see the new stained-glass window I had put in the solar,” de Lisieux said as he led her toward the stairs. “The craftsmanship is exquisite.”
Better a window than another portrait. De Lisieux must have refilled her cup, for she had to drink it half down again so she would not spill it on the stairs. At least her host’s wine was better than his food
. It took the edge off her hunger.
From the top of the stairs, she turned to look at the people milling about below. She did not see Stephen—or the woman in crimson silk.
“The solar is here,” de Lisieux said, drawing her away.
Inside the solar, scarlet pillows with heavy gold tassels were strewn haphazardly across the floor. How odd, with guests coming. Was it overly warm in here? She fanned herself with her hand. The servants must have made the brazier too hot.
“Excuse my pride, but is it not lovely?” de Lisieux said, leading her around the pillows to the window.
“Nice, very nice,” she murmured, though there was nothing special about the glass, save for its size.
Ha, Stephen would not think to look for her in here. If he was looking for her. The swine. She narrowed her eyes, thinking of what he was likely doing with the woman in the crimson silks. She gulped down the rest of her wine. Without turning, she held the cup out for more.
What was de Lisieux saying? Something about tapestries? She’d ceased listening to his drivel some time ago.
“The one in the next room is most unusual,” he said, pulling her through another doorway. “You must see it.”
Her head began to spin. “I would like to sit, Monsieur de Lisieux.” She was embarrassed that his name came out sounding like “Mi-shoe Di-shoe,” but he did not appear to notice.
Good heavens, could she be drunk? Hume’s drinking so disgusted her, she never overimbibed. How—
“Of course.” De Lisieux’s voice was solicitous.
Of course, what? She’d forgotten what she asked him.
“But first, look at the design of this beautiful tapestry.”
It was difficult to make out the pattern in the dim candlelight of the room, but Isobel dutifully put her nose close to it and moved along the wall, squinting. A grimacing face, a horse’s haunch, a woman’s breast… Quite suddenly, she saw it as a whole and for what it was. Too shocked to speak, she stared open-mouthed at the obscene mythological scene of satyrs having intimate relations with human women.
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