Knight of Pleasure

by Margaret Mallory

  She felt an overwhelming tenderness toward him. Was it merely gratitude for the unexpected pleasures he gave her? Was it something else? Something more?

  She brushed a lock of hair away from his face and sighed. What did it matter? She recalled her mother’s last words to her: We women are born to suffer.

  Aye, she would suffer for this.

  But she would not regret it.

  Stephen kept his eyes closed, not wanting to waken and find it was all a dream. A smile spread across his face. Nay, that could not have been a dream. He’d always known Isobel had a passionate nature beneath that sober exterior, but God in heaven, he was a lucky man.

  Aye, he must admit to one disappointment. He was not so foolish as to expect her to profess abounding love. But she did not even admit to a particular fondness for him. Did she simply desire him? Surely that alone would not be enough for a woman like Isobel to cross the line and commit herself.

  Even at the end, he tried to pull out to preserve at least some possibility she could change her mind and avoid the marriage. God knew how hard that was! Surely she understood why he did it. Her answer was unmistakable: she wrapped her legs around him like a vise.

  It had been heaven.

  Other men could give her pleasure, so that could not be the only reason she chose him. Since the only other man she’d been with was that ancient husband of hers, it was possible she did not know that. Well, she would never know it now. No man but he would touch her again. He’d cut de Roche’s hands off if he tried.

  Strong mutual desire was not a bad start to marriage; it was more than many had. She enjoyed his company. Still, he hoped she saw more in him than a charming jester who could please her in bed. He wanted her to think better of him than that. Nay, he wanted to be a better man than that for her.

  He opened his eyes. The sight of her was like a sharp stab to his heart. She looked unspeakably lovely, with her tousled dark hair, smooth pale skin, and serious green eyes.

  “Did I sleep long?” he asked.

  A softness came into her eyes, and a hint of a smile lifted the corners of her mouth. She shook her head a fraction.

  “I am a lout to let you get chilled,” he said, gathering her into his arms. “Good Lord, you are covered in gooseflesh!”

  He rubbed her back and arms until she laughed and begged him to stop. As he held her to him, he glanced up through the holes in the roof to judge the light.

  She must have heard his sigh, for she asked, “What is it?”

  “We must return to the abbey in another hour,” he said. “The monks have their supper early. If we are not back before then, someone is bound to notice we are still gone.”

  She shrugged one fine-boned shoulder.

  “Surely you do not want to be the cause of even more sinful thoughts among these poor monks?” he chided her with a smile. “You’ll have them doing penance for months.”

  When she laughed at his joke, he had to kiss her. And just like that, he was hard again. From the way her eyes widened when he leaned back to look at her, she’d noticed. Her lips curved upward. A very good sign.

  “You need do no more than look at me, and I want you.” He breathed in the summery smell of wildflowers in her hair and felt her nipples harden against his chest.

  This time, he intended to take her slowly. He did not know when they might have opportunity to sneak away again, so he wanted to be sure she would not soon forget. As he kissed her, he wondered vaguely if the king would truly banish him to Ireland for this. If so, their next time together might be on a boat.

  “Do you get seasick?” he asked between nips at her earlobe.

  “Mmmm?” she asked, but when he stuck his tongue in her ear and pressed his shaft against her thigh, he knew she forgot his question.

  When she reached down and took him in her hand, he forgot it, too.

  He was a man who knew how to please a woman; usually he went about it with deliberation. This was different. With her, he went on instinct and emotion. From touch to touch to touch, he followed her sighs. He sought to make every inch of her his own.

  There was no need for caution this time. When he finally entered her, he thrust all the way into her. She welcomed him, moved with him. This time, he made it last.

  “You are mine,” he told her as he moved inside her. “Only mine.”

  She was his. Now and forever.

  After, he was flooded with such tenderness toward her that he could find no words to tell her. He could not speak at all, except to whisper into her hair, “Isobel, my love, my love.”

  As they walked hand in hand back to the abbey, he felt relaxed, happy. Surprising, how content he felt at the prospect of being bound for life. “Forsaking all others” gave him no twinges of regret. Truth be told, he was relieved to have done with that part of his life. Isobel was all he wanted.

  Stephen began to make his plan. To win the king’s blessing, he must have all his ducks in a row. It would be wise to have William with him when he approached the king. A shame Catherine was not here to play on her childhood friendship with King Henry. But Robert would speak for him, too.

  The king would insist on questioning Isobel. That could not be helped, but he would prepare her.

  All would be well. He would see to it.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Isobel lay on the hard cot in the small, windowless guest room. The long night stretched out before her. At midnight, Stephen left for Caen, promising to return with twenty armed men two hours after first light.

  She did not see him alone after they returned from the orchard. When they went to check on FitzAlan, they could hear him arguing with the old monk from outside the infirmary door. Reassured, Isabel left Stephen to spend the remaining hours at his brother’s bedside.

  She was so exhausted she felt light-headed. But how could she sleep when the rough blanket still smelled of him? She held it to her nose and drew in a deep breath. She wanted to remember every moment of their afternoon together.

  Every touch, every look, every word. The way her stomach fluttered as she watched him spread the blanket. The solicitude and longing warring in his eyes when he asked if she was certain. From that first soft kiss, there was no chance of her changing her mind. She brushed her fingers over her lips now, remembering it.

  Though vivid, her memory after that was a jumble of sensations and emotion. She’d had no notion being with a man could be like that. It was a wonder couples who had that kind of passion between them ever left their beds.

  Perhaps it was rare for it to be so perfect.

  Regardless of what others might have, all she had was one afternoon. One afternoon of her life! She balled her hands into fists and pounded the thin mat beneath her.

  After her burst of frustration, the bleakness of her future settled over her like a heavy weight. Tears trickled down the sides of her face and into her hair. Perhaps tomorrow she could be hopeful about her life with de Roche, but not tonight. Not when the smell of Stephen was on her blanket and her skin still burned with the memory of his touch.

  Would it have been better not to have gone with him? Better not to know what it was like? He could not have been kinder or more passionate. He gave her such pleasure she thought she might die from it. And happily so.

  Nay, she could not wish she had not done it. She was a sinful woman. And an unrepentant one.

  Stephen made her feel as if she were special to him. Perhaps that was his secret, the reason women were so drawn to him. He made each one believe it. For once, she felt sympathy for Marie de Lisieux. She understood why Marie could not let him go, even when it was plain to all he was done with her.

  Isobel had too much pride for that. And she had her duty. Even if she had a choice—which she did not—she was bound by her promise to the king. She was not like her father. She would not abandon loyalty and honor with every change in the wind.

  Soon she would make her pledge to de Roche. A sacred pledge.

  Just for a moment, she let he
rself imagine joining hands with Stephen instead.

  Unbidden, a childhood memory came to her. A memory of her father gazing at her mother, his expression one of pain and unbearable longing. Her mother never cared for him. Isobel had always known it, as a child knows without understanding. Her father loved his wife with a hopeless, helpless passion. She met it with cordial indifference. After their lands were lost, that indifference shifted to complete unawareness.

  It must have killed him.

  For the first time, Isobel saw her father with an adult’s insight. The great wrongs he committed were desperate acts. He sacrificed both his honor and his daughter in the vain hope that wealth and position might finally gain him his wife’s love.

  How much more unhappy she would be, wed to Stephen! Unlike her mother, who devoted herself to God, Stephen would share his affections with woman after woman after woman. Surely that would be worse.

  Stephen was a man who gave in to temptation readily. And temptation fell into Stephen’s lap at every turn. If he were her husband, how would she bear sharing him with other women? She could not. She could not do it.

  How ridiculous she was! Lying here on this cot, furious with Stephen over imagined slights in an imagined future. He was not her husband; he made no pledge to her. Though he showed her warm affection, he spoke only of the moment.

  He never even said he loved her. Not once.

  In any case, her future was set. Locked in place and bolted shut. In the morning, Stephen would take her back to Caen. To de Roche.

  She rolled onto her side and held herself in a tight ball. And wept for all that she wanted and could not have.

  Isobel awoke to the sounds of voices and hurried footsteps outside her door. A moment later, her brother knocked and stepped in, fully dressed and sword in hand.

  “A dozen armed men are riding hard this way,” Geoffrey said in a rush. “They are not English soldiers.”

  She bolted upright, heart racing, and saw Jamie in the doorway behind her brother. She was on her feet and strapping on her sword by the time Jamie was in the room.

  “I fear it could be the men who attacked you yesterday,” Jamie said, “and that they’ve come to take my father.”

  Geoffrey got her cloak for her from the peg behind the door, and they raced out behind Jamie.

  As they ran across the cloister, Isobel grabbed Geoffrey’s arm. “Surely they would not take FitzAlan by force from a holy place?”

  The grim set of Geoffrey’s jaw told her that was just what he thought they would do. And worse.

  “You cannot believe the abbot would give him up?”

  Geoffrey nodded and charged ahead of her through the archway and along the path. When she reached the front of the church, she saw the abbot and several monks gathered below by the open canal that ran inside the perimeter wall. On the other side of a narrow bridge that crossed the canal, two lay brothers were lifting the heavy bar that held the gate.

  “Do not open the gate to them!” Geoffrey shouted.

  The abbot glared over his shoulder at them as he signaled for the men to continue.

  “Get FitzAlan into the church,” Geoffrey called back to her as he raced down the hill after Jamie.

  Isobel saw the sense in it at once. Even godless men would hesitate to take a man from the sanctuary. She hurried back toward the infirmary, wondering how she would get FitzAlan into the church. As she rounded the corner, she nearly collided with two monks carrying FitzAlan on a litter.

  The old monk hobbled beside the litter, admonishing the two men to make haste. Praise God the old monk saw the danger! She took his arm and helped him the last few steps.

  He shook her off the moment they were inside the church. “Cover your hair, woman!”

  Though it seemed unlikely God would care at such a moment, she swallowed back her panic and yanked her hood over her head.

  “How does your patient fare?” she asked.

  “He would not stay abed,” the monk complained, shaking his head. “So I gave him a sleeping draught.”

  Hearing a burst of shouting, she turned to see monks were pouring into the church. Holding her hood in place, she pushed past them to the front steps of the church. What she saw below sent her heart to her mouth.

  On the other side of the bridge, crowded between the canal and the front gate, were at least a dozen armed men. Geoffrey and Jamie stood on this side, swords drawn, looking like the men of ancient Thermopylae holding off the Persian hordes. Behind them lay the abbot. A four-foot shaft stuck up from the center of his chest.

  Fearing she would see her brother and Jamie meet the same fate, she clasped her hands together and began praying aloud. “Mary, Mother of God—”

  A voice rolled out like thunder across the grounds: “You violate this holy ground at your peril!”

  At first Isobel did not recognize the voice as her brother’s. But it was.

  “God has put his strength into our swords,” Geoffrey shouted. “We are the instruments of His wrath!”

  Isobel could swear she felt the ground shake. The men on the other side of the bridge must have felt it, too, for they stopped dead in their tracks. At the back of the group, the only man in full armor jerked his helmet off and shouted at them. The men still hesitated, exchanging nervous glances. Only when their leader called them by name did the first two men start across the bridge.

  To Isobel’s amazement, Geoffrey and Jamie cut the two down so quickly her eyes could not follow their swords. She flicked her eyes back to the leader. His black hair whipped about his face as he hurled curses at his men.

  This time, three men came across the bridge.

  Geoffrey’s sword flew as if the wrath of God truly did move his arm. Never had Isobel seen her brother fight like this—nor had she suspected he could. He dispatched two more rapidly than she thought possible. While Jamie fought the third, Geoffrey came behind the man, lifted him by the collar, and threw him into the canal. Splashing and crying out in terror, the man scrambled up the other side to safety.

  “God has seen into your hearts!” her brother shouted. “He knows you intend to murder these holy men. Turn and go, or he will strike you down where you stand!”

  Her brother was acting like God’s own raging angel. Despite their leader’s angry shouts, the men turned as one and fled past him out the gates.

  The black-haired man held his horse in place. Without hurry, he swept his eyes over the abbey grounds and up the rise to where Isobel stood alone before the church. A chill of fear went up her spine as their eyes met and held across the distance. He could not harm her now. And yet she could not breathe until he turned his horse and rode out the gate.

  Isobel ran down the hill so fast she nearly fell head over heels. When her brother saw her coming, he opened his arms and caught her in midair.

  “You were magnificent!” she said, burying her face into his neck. When he set her down she asked, “How did you ever think to say those things to them?”

  “I spoke the truth,” her brother said. “God’s truth.”

  She was taken aback. Everyone spoke to God in prayer. Few, however, claimed God spoke to them—at least not with such clarity. She did not quite know what to make of it.

  Geoffrey smiled, showing he both understood and forgave her doubting nature. With all the righteous fire gone from him, he was her sweet brother once again. They walked arm in arm up the hill to the church.

  Jamie caught up to them, his eyes shining. “We did well, did we not?”

  “Aye,” Isobel said. “Your father will be proud of you.”

  “Those men may get their courage back.” Jamie squinted at the early morning sun, still low on the horizon. “ ’Tis less than an hour since daybreak. I hope to God Stephen returns before they do.”

  “I shall pray he does,” Geoffrey said.

  “You do that,” Jamie said, slapping Geoffrey on the back. “He seems to hear your prayers.”

  The three of them went into the church and huddled aroun
d FitzAlan. He was awake, his color much improved. When he looked at Jamie, the fierceness of the love in his eyes caused Isobel to suck in her breath. Isobel looked away; it felt intrusive to observe that moment between them.

  The sanctuary felt crowded with all the monks gathered inside. With Jamie hovering over FitzAlan and the old monk close at hand, there was no need for her ministrations. Geoffrey was on his knees in one of the alcoves. Having no occupation herself, she told Jamie she would act as lookout.

  She climbed the narrow stairs that led to the small gallery overlooking the nave. From there, she had to duck her head to go up the even narrower set of stairs above. She pushed a wooden door and found it opened onto a perch at the peak of the church roof. When she stepped out onto it, her stomach filled with butterflies and her palms grew sweaty. She looked at the slats for climbing the spire above her and nearly swooned.

  The perch was high enough.

  From here, she had a bird’s-eye view of the fields and woods on all sides of the abbey. Her eyes followed the winding river and the path that led up to the orchard. She sighed, remembering the sound of birds and Stephen’s arm about her. Squinting, she picked out the abandoned croft. If only she could go back with Stephen one more time. Just once more.

  That was pure foolishness! No matter how many times, she would always want more.

  A fine lookout she was. Annoyed with herself, she turned her back on the croft and scanned the horizon to the west.

  What was that? In a copse of wood she thought she saw the gleam of metal. She watched until she made out the shapes of horses and men, tiny as ants, through the trees.

  Their attackers had not fled far. Would they go on their way, or return for a second attack? It was impossible to tell. She decided not to panic the others until she knew.

  She grew cold and stiff as she watched and waited. Surely it was a good sign they took so long. She imagined the black-haired leader ranting at his men down there under the trees. Please, God, let the men resist him until Stephen returns.