Knight of Pleasure

by Margaret Mallory

  “I assume,” the king said, the sharp edge still in his tone, “you are prepared to enter into a marriage contract?”

  Isobel dropped into a low curtsy as the king shifted his gaze to her.

  “Lady Hume,” the king said, signaling for her to rise. “May I present Lord Philippe de Roche.”

  When the man turned, Isobel drew in a sharp breath. God’s mercy! He was a vision of masculine beauty. An Adonis—an Adonis with a mustache and trim goatee that matched his dark hair. She snapped her mouth shut and forced herself to drop her eyes.

  “ ’Tis good to meet you at last,” de Roche said in a deep, rumbling voice as he stepped closer to greet her.

  Blushing fiercely, she risked another glance as she held her hand out to him. Cool gray eyes swept over her from head to toe before fixing on her face.

  “An English rose,” he said as he bent over her hand.

  A nervous ripple ran through her as she felt the warmth of his breath and the tickle of his mustache on the back of her hand. Oh, my.

  “You are more beautiful than I had hoped,” he said in a low voice meant for her ears alone. “And I assure you, Lady Hume, my hopes were high.”

  Though it was midwinter, she suddenly felt so warm she wished she had a fan. This handsome man was looking at her with the intensity of a hungry wolf. A good sign, surely, in a future husband. Aye, she was flattered. And pleased. A little breathless, too.

  She managed to murmur a greeting of some sort.

  “Since Lady Hume’s father cannot be here to negotiate the marriage contract…”

  At the sound of the king’s voice, Isobel dragged her gaze away from de Roche’s face.

  “… that responsibility falls to her brother. Since he is young, however, I have asked Sir Robert to assist him.”

  The king stood. “Now I have other matters to attend to.”

  Despite the king’s unmistakable signal the interview was at an end, de Roche spoke again.

  “My king, I am grateful for the opportunity to serve you. I do so out of deep concern for the welfare of the people of Rouen—and, indeed, all of Normandy. Neither French faction is capable of bringing us peace and prosperity. I praise God you have come to save us.”

  “ ’Tis God’s will that I do,” the king said.

  Heads bobbed as the king swept out of the hall.

  Isobel cast a nervous glance at de Roche. Neither the king’s irritation nor meeting his future wife appeared to have ruffled him. A confident man, to be sure. A bit arrogant, perhaps.

  His unequivocal profession of loyalty to King Henry relieved her. Though his speech lacked subtlety, he sounded sincere. She prayed he was.

  Isobel took the arm de Roche held out to her. As they made their way down the length of the huge hall together, she listened to the rhythmic tapping of their feet on the stone floor. She was keenly aware that this was the first of many times she would walk at this man’s side.

  How many times would she do this in her lifetime? A thousand? Ten thousand? How many times would she do it before de Roche did not feel a stranger to her?

  How many times before Stephen did not cross her mind as she did it?

  Chapter Twelve

  February 1418

  Stephen huddled further under his blanket and cursed himself. He had no one but himself to blame that he was here freezing his buttocks off. The midwinter siege was every bit as miserable as he had thought it would be. ’Twas the coldest winter in memory. So cold, in fact, that the king ordered huts built so his army would not freeze to death before the city succumbed.

  Worse than the icy rain outside his hut was the foul smell of the men crowded within. Few washed, and most still wore the clothes they arrived in more than two months ago. If he was not sure to be a frozen corpse by morning, Stephen would sleep outside to get away from the stench.

  Yet he chose to be here. In weekly missives, Sir John Popham begged the king to send Stephen back to Caen. The king, however, acceded to Stephen’s request to remain until the city surrendered.

  Each time Stephen thought of leaving, the slaughter at Caen came back to him: the women’s screams, the old men hacked to death, the blood of innocents splattered on his boots.

  Nay, he could not leave. He must stay and do what he could to prevent a recurrence of that horror when Falaise fell.

  How he longed for the siege to be over! The tedium nearly drove him mad. The day-and-night bombardment against the city walls gave him a constant headache. Weeks of abstinence made him more irritable still. Under such conditions, the camp women did a lively trade. But Stephen was never one to use whores. Even if he were fool enough to risk the pox, just the sight of those sorry women depressed him.

  With so much time on his hands, little wonder his thoughts were so often on Isobel. But why no other women? Even his dreams were all of her. He would lie on his cot and try to imagine other women, but their features always faded into hers. Serious green eyes were the only ones he saw.

  He missed her.

  What was that? He sat up on his cot and listened to the strange quiet. The bombardment had stopped. Tossing his blanket aside, he drew his cloak on and left the hut.

  He found William warming his hands at one of the fires that were kept burning day and night.

  “We’ve smashed a breach in the walls,” William said by way of greeting. “The town has agreed to surrender at first light.”

  “Will the king speak to the men?”

  William knew what he was asking. “The king will remind them he will tolerate no rape or murder,” William said. “Still, there are always some who will do it.”

  An hour after dawn, the king led his army through the city’s open gates. Stephen was relieved the soldiers appeared to take the king’s warning to heart, for they remained orderly. Perhaps the men were too cheerful at the prospect of sleeping in the warm houses of the town to commit mayhem. The soldiers did comb the city for valuables, the legitimate spoils of war. Though “the lion’s share” went to the crown, the finders got a percentage of the value.

  As he and William continued patrolling the streets without incident, Stephen began to relax. Men were helping themselves to drink, waving swords, and bashing in doors, but there was no real harm in that. He and William turned their horses down a quiet street of well-kept houses and shops.

  Stephen heard a muffled sound; he could not tell if the yowl was dog or human.

  William pulled his horse up beside Stephen’s. “What was that?” he asked, cocking his head.

  When the high-pitched cry came again, they bolted from their horses. William kicked open the door to the house, and Stephen rushed in. The room was empty. Hearing the clomp of boots overhead, Stephen crept up the stairs with William hard on his heels.

  As soon as his head was above the floorboards, he signaled to William that there were three men. The men had their backs to him. Their attention was on the prey they had cornered, a boy and girl of eleven or twelve who looked so remarkably alike they had to be twins. The boy stood in front of his sister, holding a sword a foot too long for him.

  “Halt!” William’s voice filled the room.

  The men, rough-looking foot soldiers, spun around with their short blades ready in their hands.

  “Did you not hear your king’s command?” William shouted.

  The men showed no inclination to slink away or beg forgiveness.

  “Since the king’s punishment for rape is death,” Stephen said, “you should be grateful Lord FitzAlan and I have come in time to save your miserable lives.”

  He used his brother’s name deliberately. Upon hearing it, the three men exchanged nervous glances.

  “Still, it seems to me the mere intent to commit the offense is deserving of some punishment,” Stephen said. “We should at least give them a serious beating, should we not?”

  From the sidelong glance William gave him, his brother did not think the beating strictly necessary, but he said, “Let us be quick about it, then.”


  Stephen called out to the twins to stand back as the first man charged him. Stepping to the side, he knocked the knife from the man’s hand, grabbed him by the collar, and threw him against the window. He heard the satisfying crunch of the wooden shutter breaking as the man fell through it.

  He turned around in time to see William send the other two men sailing down the stairs.

  “Damn, you always outdo me,” he said. “Could you not have left the third one to me?”

  Before the words were out of his mouth, two streaks of blond hair shot past him. He caught the two children and held them, one under each arm. As they kicked and bit at him, he shouted at them in French that he would not harm them.

  He looked up to find William watching him, a glint of amusement in his eyes.

  “Damn you, take one before I drop them!”

  William took the boy, held him firmly by the shoulders, and leaned down until the two were eye to eye. “We do not mean you harm, son,” he said. “Where are your parents?”

  From what Stephen saw in the boy’s eyes before he dropped his gaze, he could guess the answer.

  “Is there someone else looking after you?” William asked.

  “I look after my sister.”

  “And I look after him,” the girl spoke for the first time, her voice equally defiant.

  William straightened and sighed.

  They had been speaking to the children in Norman French, the language the English nobility shared with Normandy, but they switched to English now so the children would not understand them.

  “Have you taken a good look at this girl?” Stephen said. “She is far too pretty to be safe here with only a boy to protect her.”

  “The boy is almost as pretty as his sister,” William said, shaking his head. “Come, Stephen, do not give me that look. Do you think those men did not intend to have him after the girl?”

  His brother had lived with armies years longer than he had, so Stephen did not doubt him. Still, he was profoundly shocked.

  “What do you suggest we do with them?” William asked.

  “We could take the boy to a church or monastery.”

  “You think a boy with those delicate looks is safe with priests?”

  Stephen clamped his mouth shut as he absorbed this latest remark. “I will take them with me to Caen,” he said after a moment’s reflection. “The boy can serve as my page.”

  “And the girl?” William said, raising an eyebrow. “You cannot keep her. People will think the worst.”

  Stephen scowled at the notion anyone could think him so depraved. The girl was, what, eleven?

  “I suppose we can find someone to take her in as a kitchen maid,” William said, sounding dubious.

  “I know a lady who needs a new maid,” Stephen said, brightening at the thought. “And she will be kind to the girl.”

  It was only when the girl turned her startling blue eyes up at him that Stephen realized she’d stopped squirming long ago.

  “Who is this lady?” she asked in accented English.

  Stephen laughed. “So you speak English, you rascal?”

  “But of course.” The girl did not add “you fool,” but it was implied in her tone. “What is the lady’s name, s’il vous plaît?”

  “Lady Isobel Hume,” he said, grinning down at her.

  He heard William curse under his breath, but he ignored it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  February 1418

  Isobel felt like Job. After her years of suffering, God was rewarding her. De Roche was young and handsome. Respectful, attentive. A man of honor, bent on doing good in the world.

  He was solicitous of her, sharing a trencher with her at every meal, taking afternoon walks with her when the weather permitted. When it was too wet for strolling, as it was today, he sat with her by the keep’s great hearth and talked with her while she sewed.

  De Roche was a serious man, and he talked of serious matters.

  She stifled a yawn as he spoke yet again of his responsibility as a man of rank and fortune to help bring peace and prosperity to Normandy. She agreed wholeheartedly. His determination was admirable. Still, she found the repetition, well, a trifle tedious.

  Damn that Stephen Carleton! If not for him, she would not even notice de Roche’s lack of humor.

  She had every reason to be content. She would be content.

  ’Twas true, de Roche never made her laugh. But duty weighed heavily upon him. He had an important role to play in the service of his country; it would gratify her to support him.

  “Now, King Henry—there is a man born to lead armies,” de Roche was saying. “A man born to command.”

  De Roche sang the king’s praises so often her mind began to wander.

  When would he kiss her?

  Would his kiss make her feel the way Stephen’s did? She stared at de Roche’s mouth as he talked. Wondering. Longing to find out. Perhaps, once de Roche kissed her, she could stop thinking about Stephen.

  A full month since his arrival, and de Roche had not kissed her once. He often looked at her as if he wanted to. On more than one occasion, she thought he tried to separate her from her guardian. Robert, however, took his duty more seriously than before, for he was there at every turn.

  The thought niggled at her that de Roche could have found a way around Robert if he wanted to badly enough.

  Stephen would have.

  A sudden clamor of voices from outside drew her attention toward the hall’s entrance. As she watched, a man burst through the door and shouted, “The army returns! Falaise has fallen! Falaise has fallen!”

  They were back. Praise God! A laugh of relief caught in her throat when she turned and saw de Roche’s face. The man had gone pale as death.

  “Have you taken ill?” she asked. “What is—”

  “I must see what has happened,” he cut her off. Without a backward glance, he left her and rushed out of the hall.

  The hall was soon flooded with soldiers. After the quiet of the last weeks, it felt chaotic and much too crowded. Servants scurried about, setting up the tables and carrying great jugs of ale and wine and platters piled high with roasted meats.

  Isobel stood, craning her neck. Despite herself, she searched the room for a glint of auburn hair. Hearing her name above the din, she swung around to see Geoffrey making his way toward her through the throng.

  When had her little brother grown into this barrel-chested man, so like their father? He reached her in three long strides and lifted her into a bear hug.

  “You look in such good health!” she said, standing back to drink him in. His skin was as tan as in high summer. Perhaps he was not ill suited to a soldier’s life, after all.

  “You must tell me of your adventures,” she said, pulling him down to sit beside her on the bench.

  “I had time to write a great many poems during the siege.”

  To her dismay, he pulled a roll of parchment from the pouch at his belt and began at once to recite aloud.

  Geoffrey was not a bad poet. But why must he write these dreary poems of martyred saints? After two or three, she caught herself searching the room again.

  “You are usually better at pretending an interest in my poetry,” Geoffrey chided with his usual good nature.

  “Of course I want to hear them,” she lied.

  “Issie, who are you looking for?”

  “De Roche,” she lied again. “I want to introduce you.”

  “He is in Caen? Why did you not tell me at once!” Geoffrey leaned forward, face earnest, and took her hands. “Is he a good man? Can you be happy with him?”

  She bit her lip, trying to think what she could tell her brother that would be truthful. De Roche was so much more than she had dared hope for. But sometimes… well, it mattered naught. And after Hume, she should be happy married to a toad.

  “De Roche is a fine man of serious purpose,” she said at last. When the worry did not leave Geoffrey’s face, she gave him a bright smile. “He is also the
handsomest man I’ve ever seen.”

  De Roche was pleasing to the eye, but it was a third lie, nonetheless.

  “Now go and eat,” she said, giving Geoffrey a gentle shove. “You must be as hungry as the rest.”

  She let her shoulders slump as she watched Geoffrey’s broad back disappear through the crowd. For the sin of lying to her brother, she could at least claim good intent. For her sinful thoughts of Stephen, she had no excuse.

  She could not even claim repentance.

  Stephen kept the reins to the twins’ horse wrapped around his fist as they rode through the streets of Caen. With their striking fair hair and near identical faces, the two children would draw glances anywhere. The sight of them astride a single horse in the midst of a line of armored knights caused the townspeople to stop and gape open-mouthed.

  Stephen was taking no chances with this wily pair. After an all-too-brief pretense at docility, they tried to escape. Repeatedly. He would gladly let them go if he thought they would be safe. But no family member came looking for them before he left Falaise. If there was anyone in the whole of Normandy willing to take responsibility for them, the twins were not telling. They refused even to give him their names.

  Once inside the castle gates, Stephen parted from the other men and rode straight for the keep, twins in tow. He needed to get this girl off his hands. He smiled to himself, pleased to have a good excuse to seek out Isobel at once.

  Now he just had to figure out how to look for Isobel without losing one of these troublemakers. He swung off his horse and grabbed the girl as her feet touched the ground. Once he had her, the boy came easily.

  “You’re hurting me!” the girl whined as he dragged the pair up the steps of the keep.

  “If you would quit pulling, it would not hurt,” he said evenly. “Now, I want you to pretend that you are a very good girl so Lady Hume will agree to take you. Believe me, she is much nicer than I am.”

  The girl gave a loud snort to let him know what she thought of his request. A little wistfully, he thought of his gaggle of nieces and nephews. They could be a handful, but he never had this much trouble with them.