Knight of Pleasure

by Margaret Mallory

  Isobel sat straight up, heart racing, not knowing where she was. When she saw Linnet amid the tangle of bedclothes beside her, she put her hand to her chest. Thank God. She took a deep breath to calm herself. But then the events of the last days came back to her.

  Slowly, she lay back down on the bed.

  Memories of Stephen ran through her head. Stephen, speaking in a cold voice of what she must and must not do. Strapping on his belt and sword, too angry to look at her. His face when he understood what she had done. The echo of his boots as he left the hall.

  And the last time she would ever see him: A dark figure on the wall, cape flapping in the wind.

  God give her strength.

  She wept silently, trying not to waken Linnet, but her sobs shook the bed. She forced herself to take slow, deep breaths. Nothing was to be gained by more weeping. Blinking back her tears, she sat up and pushed the heavy bed curtain aside.

  It was late, judging by the light. Though she was grateful de Roche had saved her from meeting his mother last night, she must not delay making the acquaintance of her mother-in-law any longer. The woman would think badly of her.

  Isobel stood on the cold floor, hugging herself, and looked about the bedchamber. It was a dark and austere room, the only furniture the bed, a bench, and a table with pitcher and basin. What light there was came from the adjoining room.

  Isobel stepped through the doorway into a cozy solar. It had a coal brazier for warmth and was comfortably furnished with a small table, a chair, and two stools. The best feature was the large double window that bathed the room in late morning light. Beneath it was a window seat with colorful cushions.

  Isobel stepped up onto the window seat to look out. Her rooms, she saw, were on the third floor overlooking an interior courtyard. A single tree filled the courtyard, its branches rising higher than her window. A row of small brown birds perched on the slender branch closest to her, heads twitching back and forth as they chattered.

  At the sound of a light knock, Isobel hopped down just as a pretty maid opened the door.

  “The lord awaits you in the hall, m’lady,” the maid said, bobbing a curtsy. “I am to help you dress.”

  Isobel decided to let Linnet sleep. A short time later, she followed the young woman down two sets of stairs and through several rooms to the hall. There, she found de Roche sitting alone at a long table set before the hall’s huge hearth.

  He rose and greeted her with a kiss on each cheek. “Your rooms are satisfactory?” he asked as he helped her sit.

  “They are lovely, thank you, especially the solar.”

  Several trays were on the table, piled high with food. De Roche pushed his trencher toward her and nodded for her to help herself. All this food for just the two of them? The rest of the household must have long since broken their fast.

  She nibbled at a piece of bread. “I am sorry I missed your mother. When shall I meet her?”

  “My mother is not here just now.” De Roche stabbed a slab of ham with the point of his knife and stuffed it into his mouth.

  Not here? His mother must already be out visiting friends in the town.

  “I’m afraid you shall not see much of me for the next week or two,” de Roche said, chewing.

  He surveyed the tray of steaming bread, picked a thick slice, and dipped it in the bowl of honey. Dribbles of sticky honey ran down his chin and fingers, reminding her disturbingly of Hume.

  Between bites of the bread and licks at the honey running down his hand he said, “I will be busy persuading the men of the town to take King Henry’s side in this fight.”

  This, at least, was good news.

  “I’m glad you will speak for our king,” she said. “You can assure them he is a just ruler who cares for all his people.”

  De Roche snorted. “That is hardly an argument that will persuade the men who matter.”

  “I do not understand the resistance to King Henry,” she said. “There can be no sincere dispute as to his right to rule Normandy.” His right to rule all of France was not so clear, so she did not mention it.

  De Roche patted her hand. “Do not trouble yourself with such matters.”

  “But I want to be your helpmate in all things,” she protested.

  “Leave the politics to me,” he said. “Your other duties will more than fill your time.”

  At his signal, one of the servants brought a small bowl of water for him to rinse his fingers. De Roche kept his eyes on her as he wiped his wet fingers on the cloth the servant held out to him. Uncomfortable at the intensity of his gaze, Isobel set down the slice of bread.

  “Come,” de Roche said, rising from the table. “I shall show you the house. I have an hour to spare before I must leave.”

  The smell of ham and warm bread wafted up her nose. Stomach rumbling, she stood and took his arm. He was an important man with duties to attend to; she would not keep him waiting.

  De Roche walked her past several rooms without giving her a chance to look in. There must be some part of the house that he was particularly proud of, a set of rooms he wished to show her first.

  “Shall I meet your mother at supper, then?” she asked as he hurried her past yet another room.

  “Hardly. She is in Paris.”

  “Paris? Your mother is in Paris?”

  “ ’Tis safer for her there, while Normandy is unsettled.”

  Surely de Roche would not bring her to stay in his house without a female family member present.

  “If your mother is not in the house, who is?” When he made no immediate response, she said, “You know I cannot stay here with no one to serve as chaperone.”

  “It is a huge house,” he said, putting his arm around her waist and guiding her forward. “And with all the servants, you cannot say we are alone.”

  How could he put her in this position? It was all she could do not to shout at him. Not that it would do any good now. After one night under his roof, the damage was done. People would think what they would.

  “Come, I want to show you the new wing of the house, where I have my rooms.” He opened a heavy wood door and motioned for her to precede him.

  She folded her arms and turned to face him. “You should have told me your mother would not be here.”

  “We are betrothed,” he said, leaning down until his breath was hot against her ear. “As good as wed.”

  Before she could get the words out to object, he hoisted her up and carried her through the timber-framed doorway.

  “Put me down! Please!”

  De Roche carried her through a large, richly furnished solar and into an adjoining room. Centered against the wall of this second room was an oversized bed with a dark wood frame and heavy burgundy curtains tied back with gold cords.

  This was quite obviously de Roche’s bedchamber. And his bed.

  He set her on her feet and walked her backward until she felt the high bed behind her. She arched back against it to keep from touching him; his sickly sweet scent filled her nose.

  Reaching past her, he patted the bed behind her. “Your most important duty is here.”

  Her heart thundered in her chest. She did not want this. When she turned her head away from his kiss, he ran his mouth down her throat. Then suddenly, he was all over her—hands squeezing her breasts, knee pushing between her legs, mouth sucking on her neck.

  “Stop, you are hurting me!” she cried as she tried in vain to push him away.

  He was pulling at her gown, yanking it up.

  “You must let me speak!” she shouted at him.

  He leaned back, breathing hard. “I beg you, be brief.”

  “I am not well.”

  He smiled. “Oddly enough, I feel feverish, myself.”

  “I’m having my courses.” The lie tumbled out of her mouth before she thought it. Blushing, she added, “They began this morning.”

  “I see.” De Roche stepped back and straightened his tunic. “Well, then, we can wait a few days.”

 
“Aye,” she said in a voice just above a whisper, “we should wait.”

  Hume had followed the church’s admonition to abstain from relations during her monthly bleeding. She’d used the excuse as often as she dared. From the expression of distaste on de Roche’s face, she suspected this reprieve was due to a perverse squeamishness rather than a desire to avoid sin.

  De Roche marched her back to her rooms, not bothering to hide his displeasure. As if she could help having her courses! She lied, but he did not know that.

  Well, she was angry with him, too. And she had good cause! Displeasing him, however, would not serve her well in the long run. The man could make her life a misery in a thousand ways, if he chose.

  So why did she lie to put him off? If she carried a child, then bedding de Roche now was the safest and wisest course. The only sensible course. If her husband suspected the child was not his… She closed her eyes. Nothing could be worse.

  Still, she could not make herself do it. She could not yet take that final step. A betrothal plus consummation made a marriage, regardless of the formalities.

  She would honor Stephen’s demand, as best she could. Though she was not able to delay the betrothal, she would forestall completion of the marriage until she knew if there was a child. Stephen’s child.

  ’Twas foolish, for Stephen could not save her now. Even if he wanted to, he could not.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  As if being punished for her lie, Isobel awoke the next morning with a damp stickiness between her legs.

  Nay, it could not be! She closed her eyes and tried to pretend she did not know. But it could mean nothing else. She rolled to her side and hugged her knees to her chest.

  There was no baby.

  Only now could she admit to herself how much she had wanted it. If she were with child, there would be no way for Stephen to know of it, no way for her to get word to him. Still, she harbored the hope that somehow he would know. And come for her.

  It made no difference that he would have married her for the child’s sake. Nor that she would make a pathetic wife, always hoping to make him love her. In her secret heart of hearts, she wanted to be forced to take her chances with him.

  Regardless of all else, she wanted this baby. Stephen’s child. A part of him she could love and keep.

  Linnet stirred on the bed beside her, bringing her sharply back to the present. There could be no escape from her betrothal now. Her life was here in Normandy. With de Roche.

  Isobel was lost in such despair that days and nights blurred together. She did not stir from her rooms, refused to dress, and ate only what Linnet forced down her.

  Although she told herself she must gather herself and face her future, she simply could not do it. It took all her strength to drag herself from her bed to sit in her solar. She spent most of her time there, gazing out the window at the tree in the courtyard. It was in blossom now.

  She ignored the tug on her arm. When it persisted, she turned her gaze from the tree to find Linnet at her side.

  “I’ve been trying to tell you!” Linnet’s voice was urgent, upset.

  Isobel tried to make an effort, for the girl’s sake. “What is it?”

  “I told them all you have a raging fever, but it has been a week and de Roche is asking for you.”

  How could Linnet believe she cared about this?

  “Listen to me!” Linnet put her hands on her hips and stamped her foot. “I swear, I shall slap you if you do not quit looking at that damnable tree. François and I need your help.”

  Before Isobel could drift off again, Linnet lifted a cup of wine to her mouth and held it there until she drank. She felt the wine hit her stomach and travel down her limbs. With so little in her stomach, she felt light-headed when Linnet hauled her up from her chair.

  Could the girl not leave her in peace? She looked longingly over her shoulder at her tree. The sharp slap on her cheek startled her.

  “Linnet!”

  “I warned you,” Linnet said without the slightest show of remorse. “Now you shall eat the food I brought you, and then you shall wash and dress. Did you not promise the king you would keep watch on de Roche? I tell you, he is up to something. We must find out what it is before it is too late.”

  Too late? It was already too late, for her. But Linnet was right. She was neglecting her duty. If de Roche was changing loyalties, she must try to turn him back. She was so bone weary, though, she did not know how she would do it.

  “I will get dressed and do my duty,” she told Linnet. Bleak as her future looked, she did not want to add traitor’s wife to her list of burdens.

  As if by some signal, there was a knock on her door the moment she was dressed. She heard whispers, and then François appeared before her. He must have grown half a foot since Stephen first brought him from Falaise. Overnight, he’d gone from boy to youth on the brink of manhood.

  “ ’Tis good to see you up and about, Lady Hume,” he said in a new, deep voice. “Are you feeling better?”

  “I am, thank you.” She did feel a bit better for having eaten. “Linnet tells me you have some news I should hear?”

  “ ’Tis about Lord de Roche,” François said. “Linnet and I believe he is plotting against King Henry. Late at night, he meets with men in the small parlor, where none of the servants can overhear them.”

  “This means nothing,” Isobel protested.

  “But we heard them from the bushes outside the window,” Linnet said.

  Good heavens, what had the two of them been up to? Isobel felt a surge of guilt for her neglect.

  “We did not hear much,” François admitted, “but they kept mentioning King Henry and—”

  “—Burgundy and the Dauphin,” Linnet finished for him.

  “So they speak of politics? In these times, men talk of little else. I am sure de Roche is only doing what he pledged to do. He is persuading these men to support King Henry.”

  The twins shook their heads in unison.

  “De Roche sounded as if he wanted to spit each time he said the king’s name,” François said, as if that settled the matter.

  Though there was no reason for the late night meetings to make Isobel suspicious, the twins’ certainty made her uneasy. Had de Roche changed loyalties? To find out, she would have to join him in the hall and learn whom he entertained as guests.

  The thought of seeing him caused her palms to sweat and her throat to go dry. There was no point, however, in delaying the inevitable.

  She stood. “I shall go speak with him now.”

  “There is something else you must know,” François said.

  Was there no end to this? Isobel nearly snapped at him before she noticed his gaze was on the floor and he was shuffling his feet.

  “What is it?” she asked, touching his arm.

  François’s voice was so low she had to lean forward to hear him. “No one in the city knows of your betrothal.”

  “That cannot be,” she said. “By now, the banns must have been read in church at least once.”

  François shook his head, then looked sideways toward the door, as if longing to escape.

  To what end did de Roche delay? News traveled slowly between the English- and French-held parts of Normandy, but it did travel. He could not hide her forever.

  Isobel found de Roche sitting behind a table scattered with parchments in his private parlor. When he saw her in the doorway, he leapt to his feet and crossed the room.

  “I’m glad to see you are well!” he said, taking her hand and kissing her cheek. He seemed genuinely pleased to see her. “You look lovely, if a little thin. Come, you must sit.”

  He put his arm around her and guided her to the chair closest to the brazier. His solicitude made her feel guilty for letting the twins’ wild speculations run away with her.

  “I am sorry to interrupt you,” she said.

  “I am glad to see you before I leave. ’Tis a shame I must go just as you are better, but I cannot delay visiting my
mother any longer.” Roche shifted his gaze and pulled on his ear. “I cannot have her hearing of our betrothal secondhand. You see, she rather dotes on me.”

  So this was the reason for his delay in having the banns read! No excuse was adequate, to be sure. Still, she was relieved his motive was no more sinister than consideration for his mother.

  “You are a good son,” Isobel said, pleased to learn it was true. “But should I not go with you?”

  “Don’t be foolish! You’ve just risen from your sickbed,” he said. “I would not have you risk the roads again, in any case.”

  They were interrupted then by one of his men-at-arms. “Lord de Roche,” the man said from the doorway, “the men are ready and await you outside.”

  “I shall join you shortly,” de Roche said, dismissing the man with a nod.

  Isobel sighed with relief; she could delay the unpleasant task of questioning him about politics a little longer.

  “I can escort you to your chamber before I leave,” de Roche said, rising to his feet.

  At the door he stopped abruptly, as if he had forgotten something, and went back into the room. His back was to her, but Isobel saw him take one of the parchments from the table and lock it in the drawer.

  He took her straight to her rooms, his brisk steps conveying he was in a hurry now. Outside the open door of her solar, he kissed her hand and bade her an abrupt adieu.

  When he turned to leave, something inside the room caught his attention. A wave of unease passed through Isobel as she followed the direction of his gaze. What caught de Roche’s attention—and held it still—was Linnet.

  The girl sat on the window seat, head bowed over her needlework, sunlight shining on her fair hair. How had Isobel failed to notice? Linnet, like her brother, was growing up. Her emerging shape was a trifle too apparent in the too-small gown.

  Isobel drew in a sharp breath when Linnet looked up and fixed her deep blue eyes on them. Heaven help the child. A girl so alone in the world should not be this lovely.

  As Linnet’s mistress and lady of the house, Isobel could protect her from most men. But not from de Roche. If he was dishonorable enough to take advantage of a dependent, Isobel was powerless to stop him.