Knight of Pleasure (13 page)

A short time later, they were ushered into the Great Hall of the Exchequer. Isobel clutched Robert’s arm as he led her to
the far end of the room, where King Henry sat on a raised chair. No one would mistake the king for a monk today. For this
occasion, he wore an ermine-trimmed robe over a tunic emblazoned with his royal herald, the lion and fleur-de-lis, in gold,
red, and blue.

They halted a few paces behind a man with whom the king was speaking. As they waited for the king to acknowledge them, Robert
squeezed her fingers resting on his arm. When she raised an eyebrow at him, Robert tilted his head toward the man and nodded.

This, then, was the man who would be her husband for the rest of her days. Even from the back, she could tell he was young
and strongly built. He was well dressed, from his colorful silk brocade tunic and matching leggings down to his magnificent
high black boots. Beneath the elaborate liripipe hat, his hair was almost black. He wore it long, fastened with a bloodred
ribbon.

She leaned to the side and craned her neck, trying to catch a glimpse of his face. Warts. Boils. Pox. Blackened teeth. She
tried to prepare herself. It simply was not possible that he could be wealthy, well connected, young,
and
handsome.

The king’s next words jarred her from her observations.

“We are pleased, Lord de Roche,” the king said, sounding anything but pleased, “that you have seen fit to heed our summons.
At last.”

“I apologize for my delay, sire.”

De Roche did not sound any more contrite than the king sounded pleased. This did not bode well.

“I assure you, I spent the time on your behalf,” de Roche continued. “I’ve devoted myself to persuading the men of Rouen of
the wisdom of recognizing you as our sovereign lord.”

“They should not need so much persuasion.” The king gave him a hard look and added, “You must tell your compatriots not to
try my patience—or God’s.”

“Of course, sire.”

De Roche’s complacent reply did not sound as though he took the king’s warning as seriously as Isobel thought he should.

“I assume,” the king said, the sharp edge still in his tone, “you are prepared to enter into a marriage contract?”

Isobel dropped into a low curtsy as the king shifted his gaze to her.

“Lady Hume,” the king said, signaling for her to rise. “May I present Lord Philippe de Roche.”

When the man turned, Isobel drew in a sharp breath. God’s mercy! He was a vision of masculine beauty. An Adonis—an Adonis
with a mustache and trim goatee that matched his dark hair. She snapped her mouth shut and forced herself to drop her eyes.

“ ’Tis good to meet you at last,” de Roche said in a deep, rumbling voice as he stepped closer to greet her.

Blushing fiercely, she risked another glance as she held her hand out to him. Cool gray eyes swept over her from head to toe
before fixing on her face.

“An English rose,” he said as he bent over her hand.

A nervous ripple ran through her as she felt the warmth of his breath and the tickle of his mustache on the back of her hand.
Oh, my.

“You are more beautiful than I had hoped,” he said in a low voice meant for her ears alone. “And I assure you, Lady Hume,
my hopes were high.”

Though it was midwinter, she suddenly felt so warm she wished she had a fan. This handsome man was looking at her with the
intensity of a hungry wolf. A good sign, surely, in a future husband. Aye, she was flattered. And pleased. A little breathless,
too.

She managed to murmur a greeting of some sort.

“Since Lady Hume’s father cannot be here to negotiate the marriage contract…”

At the sound of the king’s voice, Isobel dragged her gaze away from de Roche’s face.

“… that responsibility falls to her brother. Since he is young, however, I have asked Sir Robert to assist him.”

The king stood. “Now I have other matters to attend to.”

Despite the king’s unmistakable signal the interview was at an end, de Roche spoke again.

“My king, I am grateful for the opportunity to serve you. I do so out of deep concern for the welfare of the people of Rouen—and,
indeed, all of Normandy. Neither French faction is capable of bringing us peace and prosperity. I praise God you have come
to save us.”

“ ’Tis God’s will that I do,” the king said.

Heads bobbed as the king swept out of the hall.

Isobel cast a nervous glance at de Roche. Neither the king’s irritation nor meeting his future wife appeared to have ruffled
him. A confident man, to be sure. A bit arrogant, perhaps.

His unequivocal profession of loyalty to King Henry relieved her. Though his speech lacked subtlety, he sounded sincere. She
prayed he was.

Isobel took the arm de Roche held out to her. As they made their way down the length of the huge hall together, she listened
to the rhythmic tapping of their feet on the stone floor. She was keenly aware that this was the first of many times she would
walk at this man’s side.

How many times would she do this in her lifetime? A thousand? Ten thousand? How many times would she do it before de Roche
did not feel a stranger to her?

How many times before Stephen did not cross her mind as she did it?

February 1418

S
tephen huddled further under his blanket and cursed himself. He had no one but himself to blame that he was here freezing
his buttocks off. The midwinter siege was every bit as miserable as he had thought it would be. ’Twas the coldest winter in
memory. So cold, in fact, that the king ordered huts built so his army would not freeze to death before the city succumbed.

Worse than the icy rain outside his hut was the foul smell of the men crowded within. Few washed, and most still wore the
clothes they arrived in more than two months ago. If he was not sure to be a frozen corpse by morning, Stephen would sleep
outside to get away from the stench.

Yet he chose to be here. In weekly missives, Sir John Popham begged the king to send Stephen back to Caen. The king, however,
acceded to Stephen’s request to remain until the city surrendered.

Each time Stephen thought of leaving, the slaughter at Caen came back to him: the women’s screams, the old men hacked to death,
the blood of innocents splattered on his boots.

Nay, he could not leave. He must stay and do what he could to prevent a recurrence of that horror when Falaise fell.

How he longed for the siege to be over! The tedium nearly drove him mad. The day-and-night bombardment against the city walls
gave him a constant headache. Weeks of abstinence made him more irritable still. Under such conditions, the camp women did
a lively trade. But Stephen was never one to use whores. Even if he were fool enough to risk the pox, just the sight of those
sorry women depressed him.

With so much time on his hands, little wonder his thoughts were so often on Isobel. But why no other women? Even his dreams
were all of her. He would lie on his cot and try to imagine other women, but their features always faded into hers. Serious
green eyes were the only ones he saw.

He missed her.

What was that?
He sat up on his cot and listened to the strange quiet. The bombardment had stopped. Tossing his blanket aside, he drew his
cloak on and left the hut.

He found William warming his hands at one of the fires that were kept burning day and night.

“We’ve smashed a breach in the walls,” William said by way of greeting. “The town has agreed to surrender at first light.”

“Will the king speak to the men?”

William knew what he was asking. “The king will remind them he will tolerate no rape or murder,” William said. “Still, there
are always some who will do it.”

An hour after dawn, the king led his army through the city’s open gates. Stephen was relieved the soldiers appeared to take
the king’s warning to heart, for they remained orderly. Perhaps the men were too cheerful at the prospect of sleeping in the
warm houses of the town to commit mayhem. The soldiers did comb the city for valuables, the legitimate spoils of war. Though
“the lion’s share” went to the crown, the finders got a percentage of the value.

As he and William continued patrolling the streets without incident, Stephen began to relax. Men were helping themselves to
drink, waving swords, and bashing in doors, but there was no real harm in that. He and William turned their horses down a
quiet street of well-kept houses and shops.

Stephen heard a muffled sound; he could not tell if the yowl was dog or human.

William pulled his horse up beside Stephen’s. “What was that?” he asked, cocking his head.

When the high-pitched cry came again, they bolted from their horses. William kicked open the door to the house, and Stephen
rushed in. The room was empty. Hearing the clomp of boots overhead, Stephen crept up the stairs with William hard on his heels.

As soon as his head was above the floorboards, he signaled to William that there were three men. The men had their backs to
him. Their attention was on the prey they had cornered, a boy and girl of eleven or twelve who looked so remarkably alike
they had to be twins. The boy stood in front of his sister, holding a sword a foot too long for him.

“Halt!” William’s voice filled the room.

The men, rough-looking foot soldiers, spun around with their short blades ready in their hands.

“Did you not hear your king’s command?” William shouted.

The men showed no inclination to slink away or beg forgiveness.

“Since the king’s punishment for rape is death,” Stephen said, “you should be grateful Lord FitzAlan and I have come in time
to save your miserable lives.”

He used his brother’s name deliberately. Upon hearing it, the three men exchanged nervous glances.

“Still, it seems to me the mere intent to commit the offense is deserving of some punishment,” Stephen said. “We should at
least give them a serious beating, should we not?”

From the sidelong glance William gave him, his brother did not think the beating strictly necessary, but he said, “Let us
be quick about it, then.”

Stephen called out to the twins to stand back as the first man charged him. Stepping to the side, he knocked the knife from
the man’s hand, grabbed him by the collar, and threw him against the window. He heard the satisfying crunch of the wooden
shutter breaking as the man fell through it.

He turned around in time to see William send the other two men sailing down the stairs.

“Damn, you always outdo me,” he said. “Could you not have left the third one to me?”

Before the words were out of his mouth, two streaks of blond hair shot past him. He caught the two children and held them,
one under each arm. As they kicked and bit at him, he shouted at them in French that he would not harm them.

He looked up to find William watching him, a glint of amusement in his eyes.

“Damn you, take one before I drop them!”

William took the boy, held him firmly by the shoulders, and leaned down until the two were eye to eye. “We do not mean you
harm, son,” he said. “Where are your parents?”

From what Stephen saw in the boy’s eyes before he dropped his gaze, he could guess the answer.

“Is there someone else looking after you?” William asked.

“I look after my sister.”

“And I look after him,” the girl spoke for the first time, her voice equally defiant.

William straightened and sighed.

They had been speaking to the children in Norman French, the language the English nobility shared with Normandy, but they
switched to English now so the children would not understand them.

“Have you taken a good look at this girl?” Stephen said. “She is far too pretty to be safe here with only a boy to protect
her.”

“The boy is almost as pretty as his sister,” William said, shaking his head. “Come, Stephen, do not give me that look. Do
you think those men did not intend to have him after the girl?”

His brother had lived with armies years longer than he had, so Stephen did not doubt him. Still, he was profoundly shocked.

“What do you suggest we do with them?” William asked.

“We could take the boy to a church or monastery.”

“You think a boy with those delicate looks is safe with priests?”

Stephen clamped his mouth shut as he absorbed this latest remark. “I will take them with me to Caen,” he said after a moment’s
reflection. “The boy can serve as my page.”

“And the girl?” William said, raising an eyebrow. “You cannot keep her. People will think the worst.”

Stephen scowled at the notion anyone could think him so depraved. The girl was, what, eleven?

“I suppose we can find someone to take her in as a kitchen maid,” William said, sounding dubious.

“I know a lady who needs a new maid,” Stephen said, brightening at the thought. “And she will be kind to the girl.”

It was only when the girl turned her startling blue eyes up at him that Stephen realized she’d stopped squirming long ago.

“Who is this lady?” she asked in accented English.

Stephen laughed. “So you speak English, you rascal?”

“But of course.” The girl did not add “you fool,” but it was implied in her tone. “What is the lady’s name,
s’il vous plaît?
”

“Lady Isobel Hume,” he said, grinning down at her.

He heard William curse under his breath, but he ignored it.

February 1418

I
sobel felt like Job. After her years of suffering, God was rewarding her. De Roche was young and handsome. Respectful, attentive.
A man of honor, bent on doing good in the world.

He was solicitous of her, sharing a trencher with her at every meal, taking afternoon walks with her when the weather permitted.
When it was too wet for strolling, as it was today, he sat with her by the keep’s great hearth and talked with her while she
sewed.

De Roche was a serious man, and he talked of serious matters.

She stifled a yawn as he spoke yet again of his responsibility as a man of rank and fortune to help bring peace and prosperity
to Normandy. She agreed wholeheartedly. His determination was admirable. Still, she found the repetition, well, a trifle tedious.