“The banns? The banns?” She felt the moisture of his breath on her face as he spat the words out. “Did you believe I would marry a woman so beneath me?”
He released her and spun away. “Me, a de Roche! I am blood relation to the greatest families of France! My wealth is ten times that of your father’s.”
Isobel rubbed her wrists as he stormed up and down the room, ranting. She was good and truly frightened now.
“Marriage to you would bring me no titles, no land. A pittance of a dowry. And yet your king thought I should be grateful—” He was so angry he choked on the word. “Grateful, because you are an English noblewoman.”
He stopped his pacing. A cold stillness settled over him that frightened her more than his ranting. As he started toward her, a shiver ran up her spine.
“I shall make your father pay a ransom three times the paltry sum he offered as dowry,” he said, jabbing the point of his forefinger against her chest. “And while I wait for him to pay it, I shall make you my whore.”
“But we are betrothed!” Her voice shook, despite her effort to keep it steady. “I cannot be your… your…”
“My English whore.”
Why was he talking ransom and saying such horrid things to her? “You know very well that if you take me to bed, I will be your wife in the eyes of both the church and the law.”
“That would be true,” he said, speaking slowly, “if I did not already have a wife.”
“A wife? You have a wife?” She shook her head from side to side, unable to take it in. “You cannot. It is not possible.”
“I assure you, it is. I made a very advantageous match with a young lady whose family is close to the Dauphin. Since her father was not entirely… supportive… of the marriage, we wed in secret shortly before I came to Caen.”
“Then why did you come to Caen?”
“What better way to persuade King Henry of my loyalty than to agree to a marriage alliance?” de Roche said with a shrug. “I never intended to go through with it.”
She was too shocked to speak.
“Your friend Robert was no more anxious to settle the marriage contract than I, so it was easy to put Henry off.” He took a deep breath and shook his head. “I needed but a few weeks more.”
“But you made a formal pledge to me,” she said. “Before witnesses. Before the king.”
“I admit Henry surprised me,” he said. “He cornered me before I had a chance to slip out of Caen. I had no choice but to go through the sham betrothal.”
How could any man be so wholly lacking in honor? And she, what had she done?
“Is that not bigamy?” Was it? Was she guilty of the sin, as well? “And what of the other lady? I cannot think she or her family will be pleased with the news of a second betrothal.”
“I went to a good deal of trouble to ensure they would not learn of it,” he said. “ ’Tis a shame you told my cousin.”
“Your cousin?”
“Aye, you met Thomás today, downstairs.” He shook his finger at her. “My cousin is a dangerous man. You should have stayed in your rooms as I told you.”
“Thomás? You mean LeFevre? LeFevre is your cousin?” She sucked in her breath. Was Thomás the “T” in the letter? Had she warned the king of the wrong man?
“So many questions, Isobel. Fortunately, it is as much in Thomás’s interest as mine to keep the secret.” He tilted his head and said, “Still, he is quite angry with me. You see, it is his young half sister who is my wife.”
She was reeling from all the revelations. One thought rose above all the others clamoring in her head. If de Roche was married and her betrothal false, she was not bound to him.
Roche lifted her chin with his forefinger. “No matter what Thomás says, I shan’t give you up soon.”
She slapped his face, hard.
He regarded her with icy gray eyes as he touched the red mark she left on his cheek. “Your king has quaint notions of chivalry. Since he told me he would send an envoy—and I could not yet risk offending him—I had to take care with you before.”
He took her wrists and held them in an iron grasp in one hand. Then, his expression cool, he swung his other arm and backhanded her so violently that her ears rang.
“But now?” he said. “Now there is nothing to keep me from doing whatever I want with you.”
He kissed her hard, bruising her lips and grinding his hips against her. Still stunned from the slap, she did not fight him. When he released her, she fell back against the wall. She focused on the hair’s breadth between them and pressed herself against the wall.
“I shall not be able to return to you until late.” He rubbed the back of his fingers against her stinging cheek. “I suggest you spend the time thinking of ways to please me.”
He gave her cheek a pinch that made her eyes sting before finally turning to go out the door. She heard the key scrape in the lock as she sank to the floor.
How long did she lie there, clutching her knees and shaking so hard her teeth chattered? The room grew pitch-black, and still she could not make herself get up.
How would she bear it? How could she live until her father sent the ransom? Would her father pay it? Or would he leave her here forever? If she went home, it would be in shame—perhaps with de Roche’s child in her belly. The blemish on her virtue would be no less for not being her fault.
She pounded her fists on the floor. How could she have mistaken de Roche’s stern nature for honorable character? His arrogance for seriousness of purpose? The man was an oath breaker of the worst kind. And he was related by blood—and by marriage—to that monk killer. She could hardly breathe thinking of LeFevre being under the same roof.
As she lay on the floor in the darkness, bits of what de Roche told her floated through her head. Then the bits began to fit together.
Did de Roche know of his cousin’s attack on the abbey? God preserve her! Was de Roche the traitor who sent men to ambush FitzAlan that day? Isobel covered her face and rocked her head back and forth against the floor. If he did it, then de Roche was the vilest of men. As vile as his cousin.
A memory came to her of Linnet, eyes bright with anger, slapping a dagger in her hand. Isobel sat up. She would have de Roche’s blood before she let him touch her again!
Her thoughts returned to LeFevre as she hurried to light the lamps. If Thomás LeFevre was the “T” who signed the letter, then he was the cousin involved in the plot to murder the king, not Trémoille. Would Trémoille’s head be on a pike because of her false accusation?
She stood stock still. If she had the wrong man, she could have everything else wrong, as well. She thought the murder was planned for the knighting ceremony only because of Trémoille. Armagnacs, however, would choose some other occasion—and the king would have no warning.
To have any hope of saving the king, she must first save herself. Somehow she had to escape from the house and steal a horse. Once she got out of the house, she would figure out how to get to Caen.
After trying the locked door, she jumped onto the window seat and leaned out the window. She might just be able to reach the top branches of the tree and climb down. If she did not break her neck, she could escape through the house from the courtyard.
She needed her weapons. She ran to her chest and tossed gowns and slippers to the floor until she found her daggers. Then, through the layers at the very bottom, her fingers touched the scabbard of her sword.
When she leaned down to strap a dagger to her calf, she caught sight of dull brown in the midst of the colorful silks and velvets heaped on the floor. Her brother’s tunic! She would be far less conspicuous traveling as a man than as a silk-clad noblewoman.
She slid her sword into the narrow space between the mattress and the frame of her bed for safekeeping while she changed. It was out of sight but within easy reach, should de Roche return before she was ready.
The blade of her dagger served as lady’s maid. One long stroke and she stood naked, the cold sweat of
fear on her skin. Moving swiftly, she donned her brother’s shirt, hose, tunic. Then she rammed her feet into her boots and hooked one dagger into her belt. As she slid the other dagger into her boot, she heard voices outside the door.
There was no time! Heart in her throat, she dashed into the solar and leapt onto the window seat. She heard the muffled rattle of keys as she heaved herself up onto the window ledge. She had one leg dangling outside before she realized she’d left her sword behind. Damn, damn, damn!
She heard the soft click, click of the key turning the lock. Heart thundering, she swung her other leg over the ledge. She peered through the darkness, trying desperately to judge the distance to the nearest branch. It looked much farther than before.
The door scraped against the floor.
“God’s blood!”
De Roche’s voice rang out behind her as she pushed off, flinging her arms out. She grasped at leaves and branches as she fell crashing through the tree. For a moment she hung, suspended in the air, clinging by the fingers of one hand to a spindly branch. It snapped, and she fell again.
“Ooof!” The breath was knocked out of her as she landed on her stomach on a thick lower branch.
De Roche was shouting above her for help. Since most the servants were abed, she still might have time to escape. Circling her arms around the branch, she slid over the side, hoping to hang down and drop safely. Her palms stung from being scraped. Before she was ready, her hands let go.
Arms and legs flailing, she fell the last few feet to the ground. She tasted blood and dirt. Squeezing her eyes shut against the throbbing pain in her ribs, she dragged herself up to her hands and knees. The next thing she knew, her feet were dangling in the air.
“I cannot breathe,” she squeaked to the man holding her up by the collar.
“Lady Hume?” the man said, surprise in his voice. “I thought you were an intruder.”
A cold chill of fear swept through her. The man holding her was Thomás LeFevre.
He set her down so that her feet rested on the ground, but he did not release his hold.
“Send the servants back to bed and wait there,” he called up to de Roche. “I shall bring you what fell out of the window.”
Turning back to her, he said, “I take it you were as displeased as I to learn of my cousin’s duplicity.”
He must think she jumped because she learned of de Roche’s prior marriage. Thank God, neither man had reason to suspect she knew about the murder plot!
Isobel tried to clear her head. Though shaken and bruised, she was not seriously injured. She must try to get away before LeFevre took her upstairs. However poor her chances, they were better with one man than two. She must choose her moment carefully.
LeFevre stood behind her, calm but alert, his hands resting on her shoulders as if he were a friend or lover. It was odd, both of them waiting and listening. The sounds of voices and people moving about the house gradually subsided. One by one, the rooms on the courtyard went dark, save for her solar.
LeFevre clamped a hand over her mouth and pulled her roughly to the doorway. Isobel grabbed the doorframe with both hands and tried to scream. Barely breaking his stride, he jerked her hands free. She struggled against him, kicking and biting as he dragged her relentlessly up the stairs.
When they reached her solar, LeFevre kicked the door open. He hauled her across the room and shoved her into the bedchamber. She fell sprawling across the floor. When she looked behind her, alarm pulsed through her. Both LeFevre and de Roche were staring at her.
“I’ve never seen a woman clad in men’s leggings before,” de Roche said, examining her from head to toe. “I shall have to ask you to wear them for me again.”
She could not defend herself against both of them. But if she waited until the last minute to pull her knife, she might succeed in killing the first who tried to touch her.
De Roche took a step toward her. Fine. It would be he who felt her blade. He deserved to die at her hand.
“Wait!” LeFevre put his arm out to stop de Roche.
That was not lust in LeFevre’s eyes. Still, his penetrating gaze frightened her even more than de Roche’s.
“Pull your hood up and push your hair into it,” LeFevre ordered her. “Do it now, or I shall do it for you.”
If he took hold of her, she could lose her chance to pull her knife. She did as she was told.
LeFevre narrowed his eyes. Then his expression cleared, as if he found the answer to a question that had been puzzling him.
“She was with FitzAlan at the abbey,” LeFevre said.
“What?” de Roche said. “How could she?”
“She was there, dressed as she is now,” LeFevre said in a flat tone. “And she saw me.”
De Roche started to speak again, but LeFevre cut him off. “You recognized me from the first, when we met outside the parlor,” LeFevre said to Isobel. “It was a mistake for me to dismiss the fear I saw in your eyes.”
“What shall we do?” de Roche asked, the edge of panic in his voice. “We cannot have our involvement in the abbey attack known. The Dauphin would distance himself from us without a second thought.”
LeFevre’s black eyes never left Isobel’s face.
“We shall have to kill her, of course.”
Chapter Thirty-three
When do we sneak back to get Isobel?” Linnet asked.
Stephen sat with the twins and Jamie at a simple wooden table in the abbey guesthouse. While the other men were preparing to ride, he was giving Jamie a brief recounting of events and advising him of his plan.
“You are not going, Linnet.” He wished he did not have to take François, either, but he needed the boy’s help to get into de Roche’s house. Damn, damn, damn.
Ignoring Linnet’s glower, he told Jamie, “I shall go back into the city after dark.”
“How many of us do you want to go with you?” Jamie asked.
“François and I will go alone. I need you to lead the men back to Caen.”
When Jamie started to object, Stephen held up his hand. “This is a command, Jamie. The king must be warned of the murder plot without delay. He needs to know of the Burgundians’ treachery. I shall follow as soon as I am able.”
How he would manage to get to Caen with Isobel and François he did not know. He would worry about that after he got Isobel out of de Roche’s house.
Jamie seemed resigned. Within a quarter hour, he had the men mounted and ready. Linnet was another story. Lips pressed tightly together, she refused even to bid Stephen and François good-bye before riding off with the men.
Stephen changed into his regular clothes and wiped mud onto his and François’s boots to give the illusion of long travel. At dark, they mounted and headed toward the city. A cold wind picked up with nightfall, giving them excuse to draw their hoods low and wrap their capes close about them as they approached the gates.
If the men at the gate thought the merchant on the fine horse unwise to travel outside of the city accompanied by a single servant, they did not bother telling him.
“Once you get me inside the house, come back and wait for me near the gate,” Stephen told François. “We need to make a plan for you in case I do not return.”
Stephen ran a hand over his face and tried to think. Damn, damn, damn. “I wish I knew one soul in this wretched city I could trust,” he muttered half aloud.
“What about Madame… er, Sybille?”
Stephen rolled his eyes heavenward. Lord above, was this wise? The courtesan had something else in mind when she whispered her address in Stephen’s ear. Nonetheless, he had it.
“If I do not return by dawn, her house is on Rue St. Romain next to the small church,” he said. “Sybille can get a message to Robert, and he will figure out how to get you back to Caen.”
They took a circuitous route to the narrow lane that abutted the back of de Roche’s house and stables. Then Stephen hid in the shadows with the horses while François called out at the gate.
“ ’Bout time you showed your face, boy.”
The gruff greeting was followed by the creak of the gate. Luck was with them—the man had not been informed François was no longer in de Roche’s service. Stephen eased his grip on his sword.
“You been gadding about the town again when you’re s’posed to be working?” the gruff voice continued.
“Of course!” François said. “How else would I have stories to tell you? I’ve brought you a flask of wine, as well.”
The man’s laugh rang out in the darkness. “Come in, then, you rascal.” Their voices faded as the gate clanked closed.
François was in.
Stephen paced up and down the dark lane, wondering how long he would have to wait. François said the man would be well into his cups by this hour. The waiting seemed endless.
Would he find Isobel alone? God, please, he did not want to find her in bed with de Roche.
Killing de Roche would be satisfying, to be sure. But not in front of Isobel. She would suffer shock enough when he told her the news Sybille brought. After hearing whispers in Paris of de Roche’s secret marriage, Claudette confirmed it with de Roche’s mother, of all people. Stephen knew he would have to tell Isobel to convince her to leave with him.
When the gate creaked again, every muscle of Stephen’s body tensed. The outline of a figure appeared, leaning out the gate.
“Stephen,” François called out softly into the darkness. When Stephen joined him at the gate, François said, “ ’Tis safe. He’s drunk as a bishop. He’ll not wake ’til morning.”
“Good work.” Stephen squeezed François’s shoulder as he slipped through the gate. “Let us hurry.”
“The door into the house from the stable yard is not locked,” François said in a hushed voice as they trotted across the yard. “But Isobel’s rooms are at the top of the house. I can show you from the courtyard.”
Stephen touched the rope wound around his waist. It would be safest to bring her down from the window; the less time the two of them spent walking through the house, the better.
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