Knight of Pleasure (23 page)

“You are mine,” he told her as he moved inside her. “Only mine.”

She was his. Now and forever.

After, he was flooded with such tenderness toward her that he could find no words to tell her. He could not speak at all,
except to whisper into her hair, “Isobel, my love, my love.”

As they walked hand in hand back to the abbey, he felt relaxed, happy. Surprising, how content he felt at the prospect of
being bound for life. “Forsaking all others” gave him no twinges of regret. Truth be told, he was relieved to have done with
that part of his life. Isobel was all he wanted.

Stephen began to make his plan. To win the king’s blessing, he must have all his ducks in a row. It would be wise to have
William with him when he approached the king. A shame Catherine was not here to play on her childhood friendship with King
Henry. But Robert would speak for him, too.

The king would insist on questioning Isobel. That could not be helped, but he would prepare her.

All would be well. He would see to it.

I
sobel lay on the hard cot in the small, windowless guest room. The long night stretched out before her. At midnight, Stephen
left for Caen, promising to return with twenty armed men two hours after first light.

She did not see him alone after they returned from the orchard. When they went to check on FitzAlan, they could hear him arguing
with the old monk from outside the infirmary door. Reassured, Isabel left Stephen to spend the remaining hours at his brother’s
bedside.

She was so exhausted she felt light-headed. But how could she sleep when the rough blanket still smelled of him? She held
it to her nose and drew in a deep breath. She wanted to remember every moment of their afternoon together.

Every touch, every look, every word. The way her stomach fluttered as she watched him spread the blanket. The solicitude and
longing warring in his eyes when he asked if she was certain. From that first soft kiss, there was no chance of her changing
her mind. She brushed her fingers over her lips now, remembering it.

Though vivid, her memory after that was a jumble of sensations and emotion. She’d had no notion being with a man could be
like that. It was a wonder couples who had that kind of passion between them ever left their beds.

Perhaps it was rare for it to be so perfect.

Regardless of what others might have, all she had was one afternoon. One afternoon of her life! She balled her hands into
fists and pounded the thin mat beneath her.

After her burst of frustration, the bleakness of her future settled over her like a heavy weight. Tears trickled down the
sides of her face and into her hair. Perhaps tomorrow she could be hopeful about her life with de Roche, but not tonight.
Not when the smell of Stephen was on her blanket and her skin still burned with the memory of his touch.

Would it have been better not to have gone with him? Better not to know what it was like? He could not have been kinder or
more passionate. He gave her such pleasure she thought she might die from it. And happily so.

Nay, she could not wish she had not done it. She was a sinful woman. And an unrepentant one.

Stephen made her feel as if she were special to him. Perhaps that was his secret, the reason women were so drawn to him. He
made each one believe it. For once, she felt sympathy for Marie de Lisieux. She understood why Marie could not let him go,
even when it was plain to all he was done with her.

Isobel had too much pride for that. And she had her duty. Even if she had a choice—which she did not—she was bound by her
promise to the king. She was not like her father. She would not abandon loyalty and honor with every change in the wind.

Soon she would make her pledge to de Roche. A sacred pledge.

Just for a moment, she let herself imagine joining hands with Stephen instead.

Unbidden, a childhood memory came to her. A memory of her father gazing at her mother, his expression one of pain and unbearable
longing. Her mother never cared for him. Isobel had always known it, as a child knows without understanding. Her father loved
his wife with a hopeless, helpless passion. She met it with cordial indifference. After their lands were lost, that indifference
shifted to complete unawareness.

It must have killed him.

For the first time, Isobel saw her father with an adult’s insight. The great wrongs he committed were desperate acts. He sacrificed
both his honor and his daughter in the vain hope that wealth and position might finally gain him his wife’s love.

How much more unhappy she would be, wed to Stephen! Unlike her mother, who devoted herself to God, Stephen would share his
affections with woman after woman after woman. Surely that would be worse.

Stephen was a man who gave in to temptation readily. And temptation fell into Stephen’s lap at every turn. If he were her
husband, how would she bear sharing him with other women? She could not. She could not do it.

How ridiculous she was! Lying here on this cot, furious with Stephen over imagined slights in an imagined future. He was not
her husband; he made no pledge to her. Though he showed her warm affection, he spoke only of the moment.

He never even said he loved her. Not once.

In any case, her future was set. Locked in place and bolted shut. In the morning, Stephen would take her back to Caen. To
de Roche.

She rolled onto her side and held herself in a tight ball. And wept for all that she wanted and could not have.

Isobel awoke to the sounds of voices and hurried footsteps outside her door. A moment later, her brother knocked and stepped
in, fully dressed and sword in hand.

“A dozen armed men are riding hard this way,” Geoffrey said in a rush. “They are not English soldiers.”

She bolted upright, heart racing, and saw Jamie in the doorway behind her brother. She was on her feet and strapping on her
sword by the time Jamie was in the room.

“I fear it could be the men who attacked you yesterday,” Jamie said, “and that they’ve come to take my father.”

Geoffrey got her cloak for her from the peg behind the door, and they raced out behind Jamie.

As they ran across the cloister, Isobel grabbed Geoffrey’s arm. “Surely they would not take FitzAlan by force from a holy
place?”

The grim set of Geoffrey’s jaw told her that was just what he thought they would do. And worse.

“You cannot believe the abbot would give him up?”

Geoffrey nodded and charged ahead of her through the archway and along the path. When she reached the front of the church,
she saw the abbot and several monks gathered below by the open canal that ran inside the perimeter wall. On the other side
of a narrow bridge that crossed the canal, two lay brothers were lifting the heavy bar that held the gate.

“Do not open the gate to them!” Geoffrey shouted.

The abbot glared over his shoulder at them as he signaled for the men to continue.

“Get FitzAlan into the church,” Geoffrey called back to her as he raced down the hill after Jamie.

Isobel saw the sense in it at once. Even godless men would hesitate to take a man from the sanctuary. She hurried back toward
the infirmary, wondering how she would get FitzAlan into the church. As she rounded the corner, she nearly collided with two
monks carrying FitzAlan on a litter.

The old monk hobbled beside the litter, admonishing the two men to make haste. Praise God the old monk saw the danger! She
took his arm and helped him the last few steps.

He shook her off the moment they were inside the church. “Cover your hair, woman!”

Though it seemed unlikely God would care at such a moment, she swallowed back her panic and yanked her hood over her head.

“How does your patient fare?” she asked.

“He would not stay abed,” the monk complained, shaking his head. “So I gave him a sleeping draught.”

Hearing a burst of shouting, she turned to see monks were pouring into the church. Holding her hood in place, she pushed past
them to the front steps of the church. What she saw below sent her heart to her mouth.

On the other side of the bridge, crowded between the canal and the front gate, were at least a dozen armed men. Geoffrey and
Jamie stood on this side, swords drawn, looking like the men of ancient Thermopylae holding off the Persian hordes. Behind
them lay the abbot. A four-foot shaft stuck up from the center of his chest.

Fearing she would see her brother and Jamie meet the same fate, she clasped her hands together and began praying aloud. “Mary,
Mother of God—”

A voice rolled out like thunder across the grounds: “You violate this holy ground at your peril!”

At first Isobel did not recognize the voice as her brother’s. But it was.

“God has put his strength into our swords,” Geoffrey shouted. “We are the instruments of His wrath!”

Isobel could swear she felt the ground shake. The men on the other side of the bridge must have felt it, too, for they stopped
dead in their tracks. At the back of the group, the only man in full armor jerked his helmet off and shouted at them. The
men still hesitated, exchanging nervous glances. Only when their leader called them by name did the first two men start across
the bridge.

To Isobel’s amazement, Geoffrey and Jamie cut the two down so quickly her eyes could not follow their swords. She flicked
her eyes back to the leader. His black hair whipped about his face as he hurled curses at his men.

This time, three men came across the bridge.

Geoffrey’s sword flew as if the wrath of God truly did move his arm. Never had Isobel seen her brother fight like this—nor
had she suspected he could. He dispatched two more rapidly than she thought possible. While Jamie fought the third, Geoffrey
came behind the man, lifted him by the collar, and threw him into the canal. Splashing and crying out in terror, the man scrambled
up the other side to safety.

“God has seen into your hearts!” her brother shouted. “He knows you intend to murder these holy men. Turn and go, or he will
strike you down where you stand!”

Her brother was acting like God’s own raging angel. Despite their leader’s angry shouts, the men turned as one and fled past
him out the gates.

The black-haired man held his horse in place. Without hurry, he swept his eyes over the abbey grounds and up the rise to where
Isobel stood alone before the church. A chill of fear went up her spine as their eyes met and held across the distance. He
could not harm her now. And yet she could not breathe until he turned his horse and rode out the gate.

Isobel ran down the hill so fast she nearly fell head over heels. When her brother saw her coming, he opened his arms and
caught her in midair.

“You were magnificent!” she said, burying her face into his neck. When he set her down she asked, “How did you ever think
to say those things to them?”

“I spoke the truth,” her brother said. “God’s truth.”

She was taken aback. Everyone spoke to God in prayer. Few, however, claimed God spoke to them—at least not with such clarity.
She did not quite know what to make of it.

Geoffrey smiled, showing he both understood and forgave her doubting nature. With all the righteous fire gone from him, he
was her sweet brother once again. They walked arm in arm up the hill to the church.

Jamie caught up to them, his eyes shining. “We did well, did we not?”

“Aye,” Isobel said. “Your father will be proud of you.”

“Those men may get their courage back.” Jamie squinted at the early morning sun, still low on the horizon. “ ’Tis less than
an hour since daybreak. I hope to God Stephen returns before they do.”

“I shall pray he does,” Geoffrey said.

“You do that,” Jamie said, slapping Geoffrey on the back. “He seems to hear your prayers.”

The three of them went into the church and huddled around FitzAlan. He was awake, his color much improved. When he looked
at Jamie, the fierceness of the love in his eyes caused Isobel to suck in her breath. Isobel looked away; it felt intrusive
to observe that moment between them.

The sanctuary felt crowded with all the monks gathered inside. With Jamie hovering over FitzAlan and the old monk close at
hand, there was no need for her ministrations. Geoffrey was on his knees in one of the alcoves. Having no occupation herself,
she told Jamie she would act as lookout.

She climbed the narrow stairs that led to the small gallery overlooking the nave. From there, she had to duck her head to
go up the even narrower set of stairs above. She pushed a wooden door and found it opened onto a perch at the peak of the
church roof. When she stepped out onto it, her stomach filled with butterflies and her palms grew sweaty. She looked at the
slats for climbing the spire above her and nearly swooned.

The perch was high enough.

From here, she had a bird’s-eye view of the fields and woods on all sides of the abbey. Her eyes followed the winding river
and the path that led up to the orchard. She sighed, remembering the sound of birds and Stephen’s arm about her. Squinting,
she picked out the abandoned croft. If only she could go back with Stephen one more time. Just once more.

That was pure foolishness! No matter how many times, she would always want more.

A fine lookout she was. Annoyed with herself, she turned her back on the croft and scanned the horizon to the west.

What was that? In a copse of wood she thought she saw the gleam of metal. She watched until she made out the shapes of horses
and men, tiny as ants, through the trees.

Their attackers had not fled far. Would they go on their way, or return for a second attack? It was impossible to tell. She
decided not to panic the others until she knew.

She grew cold and stiff as she watched and waited. Surely it was a good sign they took so long. She imagined the black-haired
leader ranting at his men down there under the trees.
Please, God, let the men resist him until Stephen returns.

She risked taking her eyes off the wood to glance to the northwest, in the direction of Caen. Two hours after dawn he would
come. How long had she been watching? An hour? Surely Stephen would come soon.