Knight of Pleasure

by Margaret Mallory

  Well, perhaps not completely powerless.

  “Philippe,” she said, pointedly using his Christian name.

  He dragged his gaze away from Linnet to look at her. Forcing a smile to her lips, she took a half step closer and rested her palm against his chest.

  She had his attention now.

  Coy did not come easily to her. She tilted her head and looked up at him from under her lashes. “Must you go?”

  De Roche wrapped his hand around hers and brought it slowly to his lips. “I fear I must,” he said, regret tugging at his voice. “I can delay no longer.”

  Isobel took a deep breath and let it out on the single word “Alas.”

  Roche ran his tongue over his lips as his gaze dropped to her breasts. For a long moment, she feared her act had worked too well. When he gave his head a shake and stepped back from her, she sent a silent prayer of thanks to every saint she could think of.

  “I shall return in a week,” he said, raking his eyes over her one last time.

  As Isobel watched him disappear down the stairs, she thought about what was in his eyes when he looked at Linnet. Not just lust, but possession. De Roche felt he had a right to take her. Isobel was not naive; she knew how it happened. The lord might give the serving girl a few trinkets or coins, but he would not allow her to refuse him.

  Isobel would delay the inevitable no more. She would not protest that the banns must be read thrice.

  When de Roche returned, she would go to his bed.

  She was not vain enough to believe she could divert de Roche forever. Eventually, she had to get the girl out of his house. But she could buy time. When Robert came to visit, he could take Linnet away with him. How long before Robert’s promised visit? A few weeks? She could distract de Roche that long, if she tried.

  Isobel could not save herself. But by the saints, she would save Linnet.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  April 1418

  Rouen was a prize second only to Paris. From La Chartreuse de Notre Dame de la Rose, the Carthusian monastery set on a hill to the east of the city, Stephen could see over Rouen’s walls and watch the bustle of this prosperous city of 70,000 souls.

  The city’s defenses had been strengthened since English forces last tried to take it, some thirty years ago. Stephen scanned the long line of the wall, with its sixty towers. To lay siege here, King Henry would have to bring an army large enough to encircle the city and guard all six gates. He would also have to block supplies from reaching the city from both the south and the north via the Seine, which flowed beside the city.

  Besieging Rouen would be an arduous task. All the same, the city would fall. Stephen did not hold out much hope he could convince the men of Rouen of that truth, though.

  As the king’s envoy, he was tasked with putting a single question to them: Would Rouen submit willingly, or would its people be starved into submission?

  Stephen wondered again why the king chose him for this mission. He sensed his brother’s hand in it. Perhaps it was Robert’s. Stephen had plenty of time to contemplate that puzzle on the two-day ride to Rouen. Instead, all he thought of was Isobel—and what he was going to do about her when he got here.

  It had been two weeks. Two weeks since she lay naked beneath him. Two weeks since she refused him.

  Two weeks since she made her pledge to another.

  For the thousandth time, he asked himself why she did it. How could she? How could she do it right after she agreed not to? She did it so soon after he left her bed, his smell must have been on her skin as she made her pledge to de Roche.

  Somehow the king had suspected Stephen’s intentions toward Isobel, or so Robert believed. The king was not the only one to guess. Apparently, Robert, William, and Catherine had planned to speak to the king on Stephen’s behalf that very day. King Henry acted swiftly, before his friends could approach him.

  Robert insisted the king surprised Isobel, as well. But still, it was she who spoke the promise of marriage. Stephen’s only comfort was that Isobel did not look the happy bride that morning, with her eyes swollen and her skin as pale as death.

  A betrothal between a man and woman of consenting age was very nearly irreversible. But surely pregnancy by another man was a valid ground for breaking it. Time was short. Her marriage to de Roche could be completed in a week or so.

  If Isobel was with child, it would be a simple matter. Stephen would carry her off and deal with the consequences later. If she did not agree to marry him at once, he would wear her down by the time the child was born.

  What would he do if she did not yet know if she carried his child? Or worse, if she were certain she did not? He would not let himself think of that.

  “Stephen!”

  He turned to see Jamie and Geoffrey hurrying toward him.

  “The city has replied to the message you sent today,” Jamie said, holding out the rolled parchment.

  Stephen scanned the long and flowery missive.

  “The city will graciously welcome King Henry’s envoy on the morrow,” he summarized for Jamie and Geoffrey. “But they ‘invite’ my escort of English knights to remain here at the monastery while I conduct my business in the city.”

  “You cannot agree to go alone,” Jamie protested. “At least take Geoffrey and me with you.”

  “They will not permit it,” he told them. “And there is no need, since they have guaranteed my safety.”

  “Their guarantee!” Jamie scoffed. “These Frenchmen murder even sworn allies and close relations.”

  “If they mean to violate their guarantee,” Stephen said, “one or two men could not save me.”

  He would ride into Rouen alone on the morrow. Within a day or two, he would know the city’s fate. And his own.

  Linnet rushed into the solar and slammed the door behind her. “De Roche has returned!”

  Isobel’s stomach clutched; her reprieve was over.

  “The servants are all abuzz, because no sooner was he in the house than he left again,” Linnet said, her cheeks pink with excitement. “You’ll not believe it! ’Tis even worse than we thought!”

  “Slow down, Linnet. What will I not believe?”

  “François overheard the men talking while he helped with the horses,” Linnet said. “De Roche was in Troyes, not Paris!”

  Isobel tried to make sense of this news. “Troyes? Is that not where the Duke of Burgundy and the French queen are?”

  Linnet nodded her head vigorously up and down. “Proof that de Roche betrays the king!”

  Word had reached the city that Burgundy had captured the queen and set up a sham government in Troyes. Everyone expected Burgundy to break his alliance with King Henry any day now.

  “François heard the men say Burgundy parlays with the Armagnacs, proposing terms to join forces against King Henry.”

  “What was François doing—hiding in the straw? I wish he would not take such risks! Where is he now?”

  “He followed de Roche, of course,” Linnet said. “I told him to.”

  “Do you wish to get your brother killed?”

  For the hundredth time, she wondered about the twins’ background. They refused to tell her anything except that they were orphaned. One thing was certain. Linnet was not raised to be anyone’s servant. She was every bit as willful as Isobel was at that age.

  They sat up past midnight sewing—or pretending to sew—while they waited for François. Just before Isobel heard a light tap on the door, Linnet tossed her sewing aside and ran to open it.

  “Where did de Roche go?” Linnet asked François as soon as she closed the door. “Did you see whom he met?”

  “I followed him to a house where Armagnac supporters were meeting.”

  “You should not do everything your sister tells you,” Isobel scolded. “These are powerful men with much at stake. That makes them dangerous.”

  “De Roche never saw me,” François said with a cocky grin.

  Why was de Roche meeting with Armagnacs? Wa
s he in league with both factions against the king? Aloud she said, “ ’Tis possible de Roche attempts to persuade them of the rightness of King Henry’s cause.”

  Linnet gave an unbecoming snort.

  “He was never loyal to the king,” François said.

  King Henry was not beloved here as he was in England, so she sometimes wondered at the reason for the twins’ fervent loyalty. But this, like their parentage, was not something they shared with her.

  “The king must be warned,” Linnet insisted.

  “Of what would we warn the king?” Isobel asked, trying to reason with them. “Even if we knew something worth the telling, how would I get a message to the king?”

  “There is a way,” François said, beaming at her. “King Henry has sent an envoy to Rouen.”

  “The king’s envoy is in the city?”

  François shook his head. “He is outside the city, awaiting permission to enter. The garrison commander and the city leaders spent the whole day arguing over what to do with him.”

  “How do you learn these things?” Isobel asked. “You mustn’t go everywhere about the city as you do.”

  “Someone must bring us news, and you will not let me go,” Linnet said. “Now, how shall we get a message to the envoy?”

  “But we have no proof de Roche acts against the king,” Isobel argued. “You expect me to betray him on so little?”

  Linnet lifted her chin. “If we find the proof, will you do it?”

  Isobel looked from one pair of bright blue eyes to another.

  Would she betray her king, or de Roche? Before she could answer that, she must learn the truth. But how?

  In bed. Aye, that would be the best time to ask him. Tonight, after their first time together.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  In the morning, Stephen dressed in the clothes he brought to play the part of king’s envoy. Elaborate liripipe hat, knee-length velvet tunic, jeweled rings and brooch. Even particolored hose, God help him. As he fastened a heavy gold belt around his hips, he heard a low whistle. He looked up to see Jamie grinning at him from the doorway.

  “ ’Tis certain they’ll notice you, Uncle.”

  “Only doing my duty,” Stephen said with a wink. “Now, you be sure to get out of here fast if there’s trouble.”

  “Trouble?” Jamie asked. “You mean when the ladies start to fight over you?”

  Stephen laughed and put his hand on Jamie’s shoulder.

  “The worst they will do is hold me for ransom,” he said in a hushed voice as they walked outside together. “If I do not return or send word before nightfall tomorrow, ride hard for Caen. Wait no longer, or they may come to the monastery and take you, as well.”

  “I shall do what needs be done,” Jamie said.

  “I know it. You always make me proud.”

  Stephen did not think the good citizens of Rouen would throw him over the wall and set him afire. But they might. So he embraced his nephew, not caring if he embarrassed him before the other men. Ready now, he mounted Lightning and rode down to the city’s main gate.

  He arrived just as the bells of the city churches rang for Sext, the agreed-upon hour. An escort of two dozen knights met him at the gate and accompanied him the short distance to the Palais de Justice. At the Palais, he was received with all the tedious protocol due the English king’s representative.

  It was better than throwing his lifeless body over the wall. But they could always do that later.

  After the welcome, he was taken to a room in the Palais and left there “to rest from his journey.” Since the ride from the monastery was no more than half a mile, this meant the important men of the city were not yet agreed on what to do with him.

  News of the arrival of King Henry’s envoy would have spread to every corner of the city by now. If de Roche was still the king’s man, he should find a way to have a private word with Stephen. Stephen did not expect him.

  Since de Roche was a man of influence here, Stephen needed to settle the king’s business before his own. De Roche must not suspect Isobel was leaving with Stephen before the city gave its formal reply. Better still if de Roche did not learn of her departure until they were a good half day’s ride away.

  There was little Stephen could do now but pace. After an hour or two, a servant appeared at his door to advise him there would be a reception in his honor that evening.

  De Roche was bound to attend with the other local notables. Which meant Isobel would be there, too. Stephen had to find a way to speak to her alone so they could make their plan.

  Isobel stood at the top of the stairs, dressed in her green silk gown with silver trim and matching slippers and headdress. She smoothed the skirt one last time. Then, with trepidation in her heart, she went down the stairs.

  Last night she’d been so sure de Roche would come to her that she sent Linnet to sleep with the kitchen maids. She lay awake for hours listening for the scrape of the door. Near dawn, she heard voices below. When the house grew silent again, she finally drifted off to sleep.

  This morning, Linnet woke her with the news that de Roche had already left the house “to commit more treachery.” François came later to tell them the city was rife with rumor that the envoy was locked up or murdered in the Palais.

  All day she was tense, waiting for de Roche’s return. Finally, an hour ago, de Roche sent a servant to tell her to dress for a grand reception at the Palais. That must mean the envoy was at the Palais—but alive and well.

  The reception would be her best—perhaps her only—opportunity to give a message to the king’s envoy. If de Roche was involved in some treachery against King Henry, she must try to learn what it was before they arrived at the Palais.

  De Roche was waiting for her in the front entry. His eyes widened when he saw her.

  “I would much rather stay home with you this evening,” he said as he took her arm. “But the reception is for King Henry’s envoy, and he will expect to see you.”

  “Who is the envoy?” she asked. “Do I know him?”

  He shrugged. “I did not hear the name. Come, the carriage is waiting. We are late.”

  She had so little time! What would be the best approach? Flattery? Pouting? She was off playing with swords when the other girls learned these useful skills.

  “ ’Tis a shame,” she said once they were settled in the carriage, “you could not even come to greet me after being gone a week.”

  De Roche’s teeth flashed in the dim light. “You missed me.”

  She looked up at him through her lashes and nodded. In sooth, his almost constant absence was all that gave her hope of surviving this marriage.

  She turned her head away and gave a sniff. “I hope you had good reason to neglect me.”

  He put his hand on her thigh. “I told you the men here are hardheaded,” he said, leaning closer. “It takes much effort to persuade them to the right course.”

  He began kissing her neck. When his hand went to her breast, she panicked and blurted out, “Are you with the Armagnacs now?”

  De Roche sat back abruptly. In a voice so cold it sent a shiver through her, he said, “What is it that you think you know, Isobel?”

  “Nothing, I know nothing,” she said in a rush. “ ’Tis only that I worry about you. These are such dangerous times.”

  He remained silent, examining her with narrowed eyes.

  “You cannot think the Dauphin would ever make a proper king!” Though a part of her knew she should be quiet, the arguments spewed out of her mouth of their own accord. “By all accounts, the Dauphin is a weak and unworthy youth. And after all the queen’s affairs, many doubt he is the mad king’s true heir.”

  God help her, what made her say it! ’Twas too late now for pretense.

  “If you are planning to break with King Henry, I beg you not to do it,” she pleaded, “for your sake, as well as mine and our future children.”

  “Which one of the servants is telling you these lies?” he demanded. “I prom
ise you, he will regret his loose tongue.”

  “Please, Philippe, you must tell me if you have changed loyalties.”

  “I must tell you nothing.” His voice was tight with barely controlled rage. “There is but one thing a man must do with his wife. In that you have thwarted me, but not for long.”

  “I fear for your safety if you cross King Henry,” she tried again. “He will prevail in the end.”

  “Do you intend to tell tales on your husband tonight?” Bits of his spittle hit her face as he spoke. “Do I have a spy in my own home?”

  “Nay!” Her voice was high-pitched, panicked. “I would never be disloyal. I want to make a good wife.”

  “Then you are unwise to displease me.” He grabbed her wrist. “I warn you, Isobel, do not leave my side tonight.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Stephen stood before the crowd of well-dressed merchants and nobles in the great hall of the Palais. The reception was to begin with his formal speech pleading King Henry’s case. The king had drafted it himself, taking only a few of Stephen’s suggestions.

  As Stephen unrolled the parchment, he scanned the room again. De Roche and Isobel were late.

  “King Henry comes not as your conqueror, to take plunder and lay waste to the land, but as your rightful sovereign lord,” he read in a loud voice. “To all who pledge loyalty to him, he will welcome you to his bosom with great joy and generosity.

  “But be warned! If you defy him, he will crush you without mercy. He shall claim what is rightfully his. The victor of Agincourt is rolling across Normandy, and none can stop him. God is with him. He will prevail.”

  Stephen took a deep breath, glad to have the formal speech over. From Henry’s mouth to their ears: “Crush without mercy.” He hoped the people listening in the hall tonight knew King Henry meant every word.