Knight of Pleasure

by Margaret Mallory

  For the next two hours, Stephen stood at one end of the hall as the city notables took turns coming to pay their respects.

  Where is Isobel?

  He made himself pay attention to the useless platitudes of each person, listening for hints of what lay beneath. So far, they seemed an overconfident lot. It mystified him how they could believe their city walls could withstand English cannon when the famed “impregnable” walls of Falaise could not.

  He heard them boasting to each other. “Burgundy will come to our defense.” “The Armagnacs will never let the great city of Rouen fall.” What made these men think either faction would bring their armies to save Rouen? For months, both stood by as city after city in Normandy fell.

  Stephen saw the uneasy expressions on the faces of their wives. If only the decision were in the pragmatic hands of the women, instead of these strutting cocks.

  Where was Isobel? The crowd was thinning out, and she and de Roche still had not arrived.

  And then he saw her. Politics, war, his official duties—all flew out of his head as Isobel and de Roche came into the hall through a side entrance. Stephen forced his gaze to drift past them. Eventually, de Roche would have to come to him.

  De Roche did not delay but came straight to him. And then Isobel stood before him—so close he could have touched her if he reached out his arm. After so long away from her, it took all his will not to sweep her into his arms. He could almost taste her.

  How was it possible she was so beautiful? Her skin was pale, though, and she looked thin.

  “Have you been ill?” he asked her.

  “I am well now, thank you. And you, Sir Stephen?”

  Her voice. He wanted to listen to it and nothing else. But de Roche was blathering something to him, like a gnat buzzing about his head.

  “What?” he snapped. He let his eyes burn over de Roche, letting the man see that Stephen thought he was a worthless sack of horseshit. “The king will be displeased to hear you’ve made little progress with the city leaders. Your failure will bring the people of Rouen to grief.”

  De Roche’s face flushed a deep red. When he opened his mouth to speak, Stephen cut him off.

  “Lady Hume, you are much missed in Caen,” he said as he took her hand and lifted it to his lips. Her fingers were trembling and icy cold. “The king sends his warmest greetings.”

  Keeping his eyes on hers, he said, “I hope Lord de Roche will permit me to speak with you in private before I leave the city, for I have news of your brother.” Switching to English, he added, “And a question to ask.”

  She sent a furtive glance at de Roche, who was staring fixedly at the wall above Stephen’s head. Then she gave her head an almost imperceptible shake. That tiny movement hit Stephen like a heavy blow, knocking the wind out of him and sending him back a step.

  “Of course you may speak with her, if time allows,” de Roche said, unaware that Isobel had already given Stephen the only answer that mattered.

  There was no child. Stephen watched in a daze as de Roche took Isobel’s arm and led her away.

  No child, no child. He’d been so certain.

  Somehow he managed to gather himself and pretend the world was not crashing around his ears. He did his duty by his king. But it was the longest evening of his life.

  When the reception finally ended, he retired to his room and collapsed upon the bed. He stared at the ceiling. To see her and not touch her. To talk with her and not be able to say the things he needed to say to her. It had nearly killed him.

  He was so sure she was with child. Because he needed her to be. It shamed him that he wanted to use the child to force her hand, to make her wed him instead of de Roche. In time, she would have seen it was for the best…

  He heaved a sigh. What would he do now?

  He could not leave without telling her what was in his heart. If she wanted him, he would find a way. How, he did not know. But he would.

  There was a rap on his door. Please, God, make them go away! When the knocking persisted, he rolled off the bed. He opened the door and found himself looking into a pair of blue eyes beneath a head of shaggy blond hair.

  “François!” He pulled the boy into the room and closed the door behind him. “ ’Tis good to see you! I swear you’ve grown still more since you left Caen. How is your sister?”

  “Truth be told, she is a constant worry to me.”

  “Nothing new in that,” Stephen said, slapping the lad on the back. “You are just the man I need. Where is Isobel staying? I need to speak with her.”

  François flushed and dropped his gaze to the floor. Unease rolled through Stephen.

  In a low voice the boy said, “She stays in de Roche’s house.”

  Blindly, Stephen found his way to the nearest chair and fell into it. Isobel was living in the man’s house? He had not expected this. How could she agree to it? A betrothal was difficult enough to break, but a betrothal plus consummation made a marriage.

  “ ’Tis a very large house,” François said, stretching his arms wide and speaking in a quick, nervous voice. “Her rooms are in a separate wing, and Linnet stays with her.”

  “But he must have family there, some married woman responsible for guarding Isobel’s virtue.”

  When the boy dropped his eyes again, Stephen was suddenly so angry he wanted to punch his fist into the stone wall. Good God, it could not be worse.

  “What was she thinking, agreeing to this… this… arrangement?” he said, throwing his hands up. Was she trying to torture him?

  Had she done it? Had Isobel slept with the man? This time he did slam his fist against the wall. God’s beard, that hurt!

  François’s eyes went wide as Stephen shook his hand out and muttered curses.

  “I need to speak to Isobel alone. When is the best time to find de Roche gone?”

  “He is often out late,” Francois said with a shrug. “He rarely shows himself in the hall before the midday meal.”

  “And Isobel,” Stephen asked between clenched teeth, “does she rise late, as well?”

  “Nay, the lady is always up early.”

  He was a lost man, that he would take heart from so little. Though it seemed a lost cause now, he would go see her. He had to.

  “Tell me what you know of de Roche’s activities,” he said to change the subject.

  “He’s always meeting in secret,” François said. “Sometimes with Armagnac sympathizers, other times with the Burgundy men.”

  “What is he up to?” Stephen asked.

  François shrugged again. “Lady Hume says we have no proof, but Linnet and I believe he is involved in some treachery against King Henry.”

  Isobel, married to a man like her father, whose oath of loyalty meant nothing. A man of no honor.

  Isobel squeezed her eyes shut, grateful for the darkness of the carriage. Her hands would not stop shaking. Stephen. How it tore her heart to see him! She was grateful de Roche dragged her from the Palais without introducing her to anyone.

  “There was a rumor in Caen about you and this Carleton.” De Roche’s voice was low, menacing. “I did not believe it at the time, but now I wonder.”

  De Roche grabbed her chin and jerked her face toward him.

  “Were you bedding him, while you played the virtuous lady with me? Were you, Isobel?”

  “You insult me grievously and with no cause,” she said, forcing herself to speak in a steady voice. “I have gone to bed with no man, save for Hume.”

  He released her chin and sat back. “In sooth, I could not imagine you risking marriage to me for a dalliance with that wastrel. I vow I do not know what women see in him.”

  That he is ten times the man you are.

  At least her anger kept her from weeping now.

  De Roche did not speak again until the carriage came to a halt before the front gate of his house. “I must return to the Palais for more discussions,” he said, sounding distracted.

  Discussions over the city’s response to
King Henry. Which side would de Roche argue? She hardly cared anymore, so long as he was away from her. Her foot was on the carriage step when de Roche’s voice stopped her.

  “Leave your door unbarred tonight.”

  She took a candle from the sleepy-eyed servant who opened the front door and assured him she could find her way to her rooms alone. As she walked past de Roche’s private parlor, she recalled talking with him there. She stopped in place. In her mind’s eye, she saw the scattered papers on the table… de Roche returning to lock something in the drawer…

  The locked drawer. If he had something to hide, it would be there. Perhaps she could find a clue as to his true allegiance. She had a right to know something that affected her future so significantly.

  Should she look now? De Roche was gone, the servants abed. Heart pounding, she stood still and listened. No sound of anyone moving about. She eased the parlor door open and slipped inside.

  She felt her way through the dark room to the window on the courtyard. Looking out, she saw no light in any of the rooms save for her solar, where Linnet waited up for her.

  It was safe, then, to light the lamp.

  She lit the lamp on the table with her candle, then tried the drawer. Locked. As she looked about for something to use to pry it open, a small vase on the corner of the table caught her eye. Would de Roche be so obvious? She turned the vase over onto her hand. She smiled as the key fell onto her palm. The man was wholly lacking in subtlety.

  The key made a satisfying click as she turned it in the lock. Aha! A single sheet of parchment lay in the drawer. When she began to read it, her sense of satisfaction drained from her.

  She sat down on the chair and smoothed the parchment with shaking hands to read it again.

  Cousin,

  All is arranged. We are assured the pious H will insist on hearing Mass on such an occasion. Thus the great H will die on his knees. I shall be there to see it.

  The complicity of others comes at a high cost. Have your share of the gold ready when I arrive.

  T

  Murder. That was what de Roche’s cousin intended for “H.” Who was this “H”? She sucked in her breath. King Henry, of course! He was both “great” and “pious,” to be sure. And it was well known he had Masses said on every possible occasion.

  And the cousin “T”? That could only be de Roche’s wily and powerful cousin Georges de la Trémoille.

  But what was the “occasion” at which they intended to murder the king? She had a vague recollection of Robert complaining of how dull Caen would be with the king spending all of Lent in fasting and prayer. But at Easter, there was to be a grand event at which scores of men would be knighted.

  Mass was a central part of the knighting ceremony.

  A number of nobles who followed Burgundy—Henry’s supposed ally—would be invited to this important event. Trémoille could easily attend.

  A shudder ran through Isobel at the thought of King Henry murdered on his knees in church. The greatest king England had seen in generations, struck down by a coward’s blade. If it was his fate to die young, such a king should fall in glory on the battlefield.

  She had to get word of this conspiracy to Stephen so he could warn the king. But how? Carefully, she put the letter back as she found it, locked the drawer, and returned the key to the vase. She blew out the lamp and sat in the dark, trying to think how she would do it.

  Stephen had asked de Roche’s permission to visit her. If he did come, she could tell him then. She bit her lip in frustration—de Roche would never allow her to meet with Stephen alone. If she could find François, she could send a message with him…

  But François was already in danger. De Roche raged about finding the servant who told her of his secret meetings. She must get both the twins to safety. But how?

  She could think of no way to accomplish all that she must. A feeling of hopelessness took hold of her. She buried her head in her arms on the table and let herself weep. For her king. For the twins. For the misery of her life. For Stephen. How she longed to see him, to hear his laugh, to have his arms around her one more time.

  How long had she been weeping when she heard voices?

  She wiped her face on her sleeves and got to her feet. What had she been thinking, remaining in Roche’s parlor? As she started toward the door, she heard the voices again. She went to the window and listened.

  A scream reverberated through the courtyard. Isobel’s blood froze in her veins. Linnet.

  Isobel was out the door and running for the stairs. Please, God, let me not be too late. De Roche was the only one who would enter Isobel’s rooms at night without permission.

  The memory of Hume taking her the first time came to her sharp and clear as she raced up the stairs. There was nothing Isobel would not do to save Linnet from that. Nothing she would not do to save the girl from being forced to lose her innocence to a man she loathed.

  Her heart was beating wildly in her chest as she reached the top of the stairs and flung open the solar door.

  De Roche had Linnet pinned against the wall, holding her wrists over her head with one hand.

  “Stop it, stop it!” Isobel screamed.

  Linnet looked at Isobel with wide, terrified eyes. There was a studied casualness to de Roche’s expression as he turned to her.

  “A man must make do when he cannot find his bride.” He spoke with a cold calm that was more frightening than if he had raised his voice. “Where were you, Isobel?”

  “I… I was just in the courtyard,” Isobel stammered. “Let her go, Philippe. Please, I beg you, let her go.”

  “Waiting for the banns, the formalities… it all seems… so… unnecessary to me,” de Roche said. “Does it not to you, my sweet?”

  “Let Linnet go, and I will do whatever you want.”

  “Whatever I want.” His white teeth gleamed in the candlelight. “That is just what I hoped you would say.”

  The moment he released Linnet, the girl ran to Isobel and threw her arms around her waist.

  De Roche took out a handkerchief and wiped the blood from the scratches on his cheek. “I should have the girl whipped.”

  “No, Philippe.”

  “You will find,” he said, wiping his hands on the handkerchief, “I can be as agreeable as you are.”

  Isobel pushed Linnet’s hair back and kissed the girl’s forehead. “Go now.”

  “I’ll not leave you,” Linnet whimpered against her.

  “I shall be fine,” Isobel said in a firm voice. She led Linnet to the door and removed the girl’s arms from around her waist. As she pushed Linnet out the door, she whispered, “Go to your brother and do not return until morning.”

  The bar made a thunk as Isobel slammed it into place. She closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the door. Nothing could save her now. She would be the wife of this dark and treacherous man until the day she died.

  She would, however, get Linnet out of Rouen. She gathered herself and turned around to face her husband.

  De Roche was already unfastening his belt.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  When the knocking continued, Isobel spun around.

  “Linnet, stop this!” she called out loudly enough to be heard through the door. “You must go away now.”

  A male voice answered, “Is Lord de Roche with you, m’lady?”

  De Roche fastened his belt as he stomped to the door. After pushing Isobel aside, he slid the bar and jerked the door open. An elderly servant stood on the other side, rubbing his bony hands together and blinking nervously.

  “What is it?” de Roche demanded.

  In a high, quavering voice, the servant said, “The visitor you were expecting on the morrow, m’lord… he… he has just arrived and… and he is asking for you.”

  Isobel was startled by the sudden change in de Roche. The angry impatience was gone, replaced by a palpable fear.

  De Roche turned hard gray eyes on her. “Do not leave your rooms tonight.”
r />   Without another word, he followed the servant out.

  Isobel lay awake most the night, dreading the moment of de Roche’s return. She must have eventually drifted off, for she was in a deep sleep when Linnet returned in the morning.

  Linnet looked sharply about the rooms with narrowed eyes. “Where is he?”

  “De Roche had a visitor shortly after you left,” Isobel said. “He did not return.”

  The tightness in Linnet’s face eased. “François did not come back, either.”

  “Come, I do not know how long we have,” Isobel said as she led Linnet to the window bench. “I must tell you my plan.”

  As Isobel expected, Linnet objected to the plan at first.

  “We must save the king,” Isobel told her. “I shall have your promise that you will play your part, for there is no other way.”

  They spent the rest of the morning holding hands and talking quietly of small, unimportant things. Nothing could be gained by talking more about the difficulties ahead.

  Isobel prayed de Roche would not come to her bedchamber before Stephen’s visit. She did not want to have the memory of de Roche touching her when she saw Stephen for the last time. But what if Stephen did not come today? What if he did not come at all?

  It was midafternoon when a servant came to tell Isobel that Sir Stephen Carleton was waiting in the hall to see her. De Roche, too, would be told of Stephen’s arrival. If she could get to the parlor first, she might have a moment alone with Stephen.

  “Hurry, please,” she urged Linnet. Isobel tried to help with the headdress, but her hands were shaking so violently that Linnet slapped them away.

  Isobel stared, unseeing, into the polished brass mirror as Linnet worked. She was so caught up in planning how to get the news of the murder plot to Stephen that she’d given no thought as to why Stephen wanted to see her. What reason could he have? Any news of Geoffrey he could have told her at the reception.

  Could he be here to ask if she carried his child? She closed her eyes and swallowed. She’d been so sure Stephen understood her silent message.