Knight of Pleasure

by Margaret Mallory

  “No talking inside,” Stephen warned when they reached the door. “As soon as you show me which window is hers, leave for the city gate.”

  Stephen barely heard the soft click and swish of the door. François had a talent for this. Once inside, François led Stephen down a short corridor and around a corner. He stopped in front of a large window and eased a shutter open to reveal a square courtyard of perhaps fifteen feet across. An overgrown tree filled the small space.

  He heard a shout from the lit window above as something fell crashing through the tree.

  “Get out, now!” he said to François. When the boy did not move, Stephen took hold of the back of his cloak and turned him around. “Go!” he said, giving François a shove in his back.

  Dear God, those were Isobel’s screams echoing off the walls of the courtyard!

  Stephen spun around. He was halfway out the window before he saw the man standing in the shadows. Another man was leaning out of the window above, bellowing his head off. It was all Stephen could do to make himself wait.

  When the man in the courtyard pulled Isobel roughly to her feet, Stephen clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached. He decided he would kill this man before he left the house tonight.

  “Send the servants back to bed and wait there,” the man called up. “I shall bring you what fell out of the window.”

  Good. Better to have the servants abed when he and Isobel made their escape.

  When the man in the window turned his head to bark orders at someone behind him, Stephen recognized de Roche’s ridiculous pointed goatee. But who was the man in the courtyard? Not a servant. The voice was cultured, used to command. He thought he’d heard it before, but where?

  The man was experienced; he did not lose patience and move too soon. Instead, the devil’s spawn waited until the rooms went dark and the voices stilled before dragging Isobel into the house. At least Isobel was not badly injured from the fall. She was scratching and kicking like a madwoman.

  What a woman! Jumping out the window!

  She must have learned about de Roche’s wife.

  Stephen followed them up two sets of stairs. With Isobel struggling at every step, the man did not once look behind him. At the top, the man kicked a door open and carried Isobel inside.

  The door closed behind them. Damn.

  Stephen padded up the last steps and pressed his ear to the door. The two men were talking. He could not make out the words, but something in their tone had the hair on the back of his neck standing up.

  Stephen drew his sword from its scabbard. Though de Roche was a skilled swordsman, he was not as good as he thought he was. His arrogance would lead him to make a mistake.

  The other man worried Stephen more. If he had a choice, Stephen would take him first. Having made his plan, such as it was, Stephen eased the door open with his boot.

  Nothing happened. He nudged it a few inches wider. Now he could see the room—a small solar—was empty. The voices were coming from the adjoining room.

  Stephen stepped lightly across the room and pressed himself against the wall next to the open door. He could hear more clearly now. De Roche was saying something about an attack on an abbey. An abbey? Could de Roche—

  As the other man spoke, Stephen’s speculations came to a jarring halt. His words turned Stephen’s blood to ice.

  “We shall have to kill her, of course.”

  Stephen stormed through the door.

  In that first instant, he saw where each person in the room stood in relation to him and to each other. Isobel was farthest away, her back to the bed. Though her face was scratched, the fire in her eyes told him she had her wits about her. Thank God. De Roche was two steps from Isobel.

  Fortune placed the other man closest to Stephen. A black-haired man.

  “Stephen,” Isobel called out, “he is the one who attacked the abbey.”

  “You blasphemous pig, murdering unarmed holy men,” Stephen spat out as their swords clanked together. “I shall send you to the devil!”

  Stephen thrust his sword toward the man’s heart. At the last instant, the man leapt to the side. He was right to worry more about this one than de Roche. Still, he would take the man.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw de Roche take a step forward to join the fight. The fool had his back to Isobel. She was already reaching for her dagger. Stephen wanted to shout at her not to take the risk, but his warning would draw de Roche’s attention to her.

  Stephen whirled around to parry behind his back. While the wild stunt did keep both men’s eyes on him, the black-haired man’s sword nearly caught him. Stephen felt the blade slash the back of his tunic as he spun out of the way.

  De Roche screamed and threw his arms up, arching his back. Eyes bulging and mouth agape, he looked caught between shock, outrage, and agony. God’s blood, Stephen hoped it was a death blow. If not, the man would turn on Isobel with a vengeance.

  Damn, he needed to finish this monk killer and help her. But the man was good. Too good. De Roche’s scream reverberating in the small room did not distract him.

  The man did not even flinch.

  Their swords flew in a blur of movement as they parried and thrust back and forth. Stephen worked his way closer to Isobel. When de Roche turned and staggered toward Isobel, Stephen gave de Roche a kick that sent him sprawling at her feet.

  “Isobel, here!” He tossed his short blade onto the bed and shouted at her, “Kill him now! While he is down!”

  Stephen dropped to the floor. As he rolled, he felt the wind from the blade passing over his head. It would do Isobel no good to kill de Roche if he let this son of Satan get the better of him. She stood no chance against a man as skilled as this.

  With Stephen on the floor, his opponent committed fully to his thrust, believing it to be the final one. Stephen sprang to his feet, sword forward. Before his opponent could recover and withdraw, Stephen slashed the man’s sword arm.

  The man did not spare a glance at the blood soaking his sleeve. The wound was not fatal, but his eyes held a fury that might serve, as well. Rage could cloud a man’s judgment and make him rash.

  Not so with Stephen. His anger was hard and cold. It sharpened his senses and focused his mind.

  He pressed the worthless scum, attacking again and again and again, until he pushed him into a corner. His opponent had no room to maneuver, no means to escape Stephen’s sword. Stephen saw his opening. Right through to the heart, in one swift thrust. Just as he was poised to deliver the piercing blow, Isobel cried out behind him.

  Stephen fell a half step back and took a quick look over his shoulder. Sweet Lamb of God! Isobel’s chest was covered in blood! The breath went out of him.

  De Roche was sliding down her body to the floor, leaving a swath of blood. Isobel stood, a bloodied knife raised in her hand. The blood was de Roche’s. Not hers, praise God! The realization took no more than an instant.

  But it was time enough for his opponent to knock the sword from his hand.

  Stephen backed up slowly, one step at a time. For a certainty, he could not save himself. What he must do is live long enough after the first blow to take the man with him.

  “You cannot save her,” the man said with a thin smile, guessing Stephen’s intent. “No man is that good.”

  The man inched forward, backing Stephen closer to the bed and Isobel.

  “ ’Tis a pity I cannot spare her, since she saved me the trouble of killing de Roche,” the man said. “I came to regret helping him wed my half sister.”

  “Odd that bigamy should offend you when murder does not.”

  “What are a few monks more or less?” the man said, lifting an eyebrow. “I have but one sister, and I would not have her shamed.”

  Stephen decided how he would do it. He would deflect the sword from his heart with his left arm and grab the dagger from the man’s belt with his right. By the time the man brought his sword back, Stephen would be plunging the dagger up under the man’s breastbone.
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br />   Neither would live, but Isobel would get away.

  Stephen took another step back from the point of the man’s sword. He felt Isobel just behind him. It was time.

  “Your hand,” she whispered.

  Cautiously, he brought one arm to his side. When her hand brushed his, he felt a rush of gratitude. One last touch before he died. He sucked in his breath and prepared to make his move.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  With LeFevre’s attention riveted on Stephen, Isobel sidestepped to the foot of the bed as quickly as she dared. One half step. Then another. And another.

  LeFevre closed in slowly, as if approaching a cornered animal that might prove dangerous and unpredictable. The end of the deadly dance was near, and both men knew it.

  Isobel slipped her arm under the folds of the half-fallen bed curtain. She reached back between the mattress and the bed frame until she felt it. Cold steel, welcome and familiar.

  The mattress held the scabbard in place as she slid the blade free. Under cover of the fallen curtain, she brought the sword to her side. Stephen was so close now she could feel his heat, feel the tension running through him.

  And then she knew, as clearly as if he said it aloud. Stephen was about to sacrifice himself to save her.

  “Your hand,” she whispered.

  When the side of his hand brushed hers, she pressed the hilt of the sword against it.

  Stephen moved so fast then, she did not even see him strike. But LeFevre was falling, mouth open in surprise, the telltale spot of blood over his heart. His head made a dull thud as it hit the floor.

  Stephen whirled around and crushed her against him.

  Like a rushing river, the terror she had held at bay flooded through her. She buried her face in his shoulder.

  “I thought you were gone,” she whispered.

  His arms tightened around her. “I could not leave you.”

  She drew in a deep breath. His familiar smell comforted her. Wrapped in the strength of his arms, she felt safe for the first time since leaving Caen. Safe. She was safe at last.

  Much too soon, he pulled away.

  Stephen’s face was strained, but he gave her a small smile. “You must be brave a little longer. Someone may have heard us. We must be gone.”

  She straightened and nodded. This was no time for weakness. When she felt the chill of wetness and looked down, she faltered. Her shirtfront was soaked with de Roche’s blood.

  “I will give you a clean shirt when we are out.” Using the torn curtain, Stephen wiped the blood from her face and neck. Then he kissed her forehead and squeezed her hand.

  “I have horses waiting outside,” Stephen said and handed her sword to her.

  “That is—was—de Roche’s cousin, Thomás LeFevre,” she said, pointing to the other body on the floor. “The letter was from him, not Trémoille.”

  Stephen wiped his dagger clean of de Roche’s blood and stuck it in his belt.

  “We must warn the king,” she said as he led her into the solar. “Others may go forward with the plot. They are Armagnacs, so it will not happen at the Easter knighting, as I believed.”

  By this time, Stephen had unwound a rope from his waist and fastened one end of it to the bench under the window. He handed her the other dagger, cleaned of blood.

  “We’ll talk later,” he said and lifted her onto the bench.

  Isobel held on to Stephen as he instructed. Hand over hand, he took her down the rope. As soon as her feet touched the ground, he took her hand and led her from the courtyard into the house. It was pitch-black inside.

  Relief flooded through her as she stepped out the door to the stable yard. They made it! She saw the outline of horses in the shadows by the gate.

  Wait, was there a rider on one of the horses? She tightened her grip on Stephen’s hand. He cursed under his breath but did not slow his pace.

  When they reached the horses, he said in a harsh whisper, “I told you to wait at the city gates!”

  “I heard the shouts and thought you would need me.”

  François! She wanted to weep for joy at hearing the boy’s voice. Before she could run to him, Stephen lifted her onto a horse. In another moment, the three of them were out the gate and trotting down a narrow lane away from the house.

  “We must stop at the house on Rue St. Romain,” Stephen said to François. “ ’Tis on the way.”

  She saw the gleam of François’s teeth in the dark and wondered what on earth could make him smile tonight. And why Stephen would take the risk of stopping somewhere.

  They rode down back streets, with François leading and Stephen at the rear keeping watch to see that no one followed.

  When they drew their horses up before the door of an elegant house, François piped up, “Let me get her for you.”

  Stephen said, “Stay here and keep quiet.”

  Stephen spoke in undertones to the servant who answered the door. A short time later, a woman appeared. Her long, fair hair fell loose over a red silk robe. As she drew Stephen inside, her husky laugh drifted through the night air.

  “Who is that?” Isobel whispered to François.

  “A friend of Madame Champdivers.”

  A “friend” of Marie’s! Despite all his other lies, had de Roche spoken the truth about Stephen and the beautiful courtesan? What hold did the woman have on Stephen that he would come here now, in the midst of their escape?

  “She is very, very beautiful,” François said with a sigh.

  The door opened again, casting a wedge of light on the narrow street. As Stephen kissed the woman’s cheek, Isobel saw her press a pouch into his hand. Without a word of explanation, he mounted his horse and signaled for François to lead.

  Isobel should have expected the city gates to be barred at this late hour. Still, her bowels turned liquid when the guards came out of the gatehouse, weapons drawn.

  “My good fellows!” Stephen called out. He held a hand up in a calming gesture as he dismounted.

  After a brief exchange, Stephen held up the pouch the woman had given him and swept his arm toward the other men circled about them. Then he shook the pouch into the outstretched hand of one of the guards. Glittering coins overflowed the man’s palm and spilled onto the ground.

  When the guard grabbed Stephen’s shoulder, Isobel broke out in a cold sweat.

  What? Were they laughing? The guard pounded Stephen on the back as if they were old friends sharing a merry joke. Soon the other guards were snickering and snorting, as well.

  Stephen’s voice grew louder and she caught a few words. “… then the Englishman said, ‘Why do you think we raise so many sheep? For wool?’ ”

  Good heavens, Stephen was telling them jokes! Obscene jokes, from the sound of it. After another round of laughter, Stephen remounted his horse, and the men opened the gate just wide enough for them to ride through single file. They departed the city amid calls of “baa baa” and a spate of good-natured obscenities.

  Stephen turned and waved as they headed down the dark road.

  “How did you do that?” Isobel asked.

  “Night-guard duty is dull work, and the men are always grateful for a few jokes,” Stephen said. “But it was the coins that opened the gate. The guards’ job is to keep attackers out of the city; they can see no harm in taking a little silver to let someone out.”

  Isobel suspected Stephen had not been nearly as confident the guards would let them pass as he pretended.

  “They will be repeating those awful jokes for hours,” he said. “With luck, that will divert them until we are well away.”

  “When those guards came out, I imagined your head on a pike,” she said. “And I would wager you did, as well.”

  “Aye,” he said. “And you imprisoned, guarded by an ugly hunchback who gives you lewd looks.”

  François burst into laughter, but Isobel was thoughtful.

  “We will camp in those woods for the rest of the night,” Stephen said, pointing into the darkness ahead
.

  “Where is Linnet?” Isobel asked, guilt-stricken that she did not think of the girl sooner.

  “I sent her back to Caen with the men who came with me.”

  Until this moment, she’d given no thought to the journey back to Caen. They had a long and dangerous road to travel.

  But Stephen was here. He would keep them safe.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  St. Winifred’s beard, that was close at the gate! Isobel thought he was joking when he said he imagined her held captive by a hunchback. The image was so real he’d almost forgotten the end of that absurd sheep joke.

  Because their lives depended upon it, he carried off the facade of easy bonhomie. But the sweat ran down his back.

  And now? He rubbed his hand over his face and cursed himself. Riding through the countryside with no other men-at-arms was an open invitation to the worst kind of trouble.

  He felt better as they neared the wood. At least they would be safe here for the night. In the morning, he would watch the road for a large party they might join. It would be a long night for him, keeping watch alone. He might have to tell himself stupid sheep jokes to stay awake.

  What was that? It sounded like the snort of a horse coming from the wood. He put out his arm, signaling for the other two to stop. Praise God, they had the sense not to speak.

  His head hurt from the strain of listening so hard. What was that? A rustle of leaves? A footfall? He drew his sword soundlessly and urged his horse forward.

  “Stephen? Is that you?” came out of the darkness.

  His nephew should be halfway to Caen by now. And yet it was his voice coming from the high grass just off the road.

  “Jamie?”

  Jamie rose up from the grass, as beautiful to Stephen as Venus rising from the water.

  Jamie shouted over his shoulder, “ ’Tis my uncle!”

  Several shadowy figures came out of the trees, calling greetings. The tightness around Stephen’s heart eased, and he laughed.

  “I see you ignored my orders,” he said as he dismounted. He put his arm around his nephew’s shoulders. “Thank God you did!”