Knight of Pleasure (27 page)

Was she being foolish?

What should she have said to Stephen? That she loved him so much her heart ached every moment of every day? That this, more
than anything, frightened her? That she wished with all her heart he loved her back?

Yet even that would not be enough. She wanted the impossible. Unless he loved her
always,
being his wife would cause her too much pain.

Isobel felt ill from so much weeping. If she could, she would remain in bed for days with the curtains closed. The king, however,
sent a message summoning her to join him for breakfast. Vaguely, she recalled he wished to know about the attackers. She tried
to turn her mind to it. But misery engulfed her, leaving her thoughts disjointed and scattered.

Linnet maintained her stony silence while helping Isobel dress. For spite, the girl chose the green velvet gown Isobel wore
on the day of Stephen’s return from Falaise. Blinking back tears, she ran her fingers over the soft fabric.

When Robert came to escort her, she forced a smile. Taking his arm, she said, “You look well today.”

“I should. Somehow I managed to sleep all of yesterday.” He frowned at her. “But I can see you have not recovered from your
ordeal. You look pale, my dear.”

“I am sorry I caused you such worry,” she said. “It was thoughtless of me not to leave you a message.”

Robert laughed. “A message would not have helped, unless you had the good sense to lie to me.”

“Has the king summoned me to ask about the attackers?”

“I can think of no other reason,” Robert said with a shrug. “I was supposed to question you yesterday, so he must have grown
impatient.”

When they entered the hall, Isobel took a quick look up and down the tables. Stephen was not here, praise God. She needed
time to think. Now, that was odd—de Roche was in the honored place next to the king. Her brother was seated at the far end
of the high table, looking anxious.

After the king acknowledged her and Robert, he gestured for them to sit beside de Roche. Isobel sat without meeting de Roche’s
eyes. After his volatile and offensive behavior of late, the prospect of sharing a trencher with him made her queasy.

Isobel could not think of a single word to say to him. She was relieved when the king rose to speak.

“This is a happy occasion,” the king said, holding his arms out. “Today we celebrate the symbolic joining of England and Normandy…”

Isobel barely heard a word the king said. She was startled to attention, though, when Robert leapt to his feet beside her.

“But, my good sire, I must beg you to put off this betrothal a little longer,” Robert said, his voice tense. “We have not
yet completed negotiation of the terms of the marriage contract.”

“Since you proved unable to accomplish this simple task, I took it upon myself to assist her brother,” the king said. “The
three of us met an hour ago. Agreement was easily reached.”

“With your good guidance, I’m sure it was readily done,” Robert said in a clipped voice.

“Lord de Roche has been exceedingly generous,” the king answered in an even tone. “I assure you, Lady Hume can have nothing
to complain of.”

Isobel felt as if she were watching events unfold from a great distance. Surely this was not happening. Not now.

She was vaguely aware of Robert cursing under his breath as he sat down. With his hand on her arm he whispered, “I had no
notion the king meant to do this today.”

“Lord de Roche wishes to have the marriage ceremony take place in his home city of Rouen,” the king announced. “The banns
will be posted there.”

“Merde!”
Robert hissed beside her.

Isobel kept her eyes fixed on the untouched food in front of her while the king talked on and on. She flinched each time she
heard the word “betrothal” but took in nothing else.

God help her. It was too late.

When the king finished speaking, de Roche stood and took his turn. His words flowed like thick honey of the bonding of two
great kingdoms, God’s will, the king’s destiny.

Isobel started at the sudden weight of a hand on her shoulder and looked up into hard gray eyes.

“ ’Tis time to sign the marriage contract and pledge our troth,” de Roche said.

To the sound of halfhearted clapping, he pulled her to her feet. Geoffrey walked to her from the far end of the table.

“I am sorry to surprise you,” he whispered as he laid the marriage contract before her. “The king would brook no delay.”

She took the quill and signed without reading it.

De Roche signed with a flourish, then took her hand. His deep voice filled the room as he made his formal promise to her.

All eyes in the hall turned to her. Panic seized her. She could not do this. Not now. Not yet. Not ever. She took a step back,
her eyes on the door.

King Henry stood before her, blocking her way. She opened her mouth to tell him—

Tell him what? That she could not do this now? Surely the king would demand a reason.

I must wait until I know if I am with child. I have committed the sin of fornication, with a man other than the one I agreed
to wed.

She could not tell him that. Not before all these witnesses.

The king cleared his throat. When she looked into his magnetic hazel eyes, Isobel felt the full force of his will for the
first time. Before her was the king who united England, the commander men followed gladly into war. His every aspect exuded
utter certainty that he knew what was right.

King Henry was relentless in pursuing the destiny God set out for him. Every day, he did his duty with all of his being. With
his steady gaze, he was telling her that today he expected her to do hers.

The king prompted her, telling her what she should say. She did as he bade her. She repeated back the simple words of the
promise to marry.

It was done.

A gush of wind went through the hall, causing the lamps and candles to flicker. Isobel turned and saw a dark figure at the
entrance, rain dripping from his cloak. Her heart caught in her throat. Even before he threw his hood back and pushed the
wet hair from his face, she knew it was him.

“Sir Stephen,” the king called out, a smile lighting his face. “Come, we will make room for you here.”

Stephen strode up to the high table and made his bow to the king. But when he lifted his head, his dark eyes were fixed on
Isobel.

“You are just in time to hear the good news,” the king said, gesturing toward Isobel and de Roche. “Lord de Roche and Lady
Isobel Hume are betrothed. They leave today for Rouen.”

Isobel felt faint under Stephen’s gaze. Though his face was expressionless, she saw the muscles in his jaw working. How angry
he must be with her! Only hours since he demanded she delay this marriage, and already she had bound herself. Only hours since
she lay naked with him, and she stood beside the man who would be her husband. She wanted to cry out that it was not her fault—the
king gave her no choice.

But none of it mattered. What was done was done.

“I wish you every happiness,” Stephen said between his teeth. Without another word, he turned on his heel.

Isobel watched the dark drops of rainwater fall from his cape and hit the gray stone floor as he walked across it. Long after
he was gone, she heard the echo of his boots in the silent hall.

Isobel sat on the bench in her bedchamber, staring blindly out the window slit as Linnet packed her chest. Glancing down,
she saw she was dressed in her traveling clothes. She had no memory of changing.

Now and then, Linnet asked a question about the packing. Isobel could not muster the strength to answer. When she saw Linnet
carry her sword to the chest, though, she forced herself to speak.

“I shall have to give that up.” Her voice came out as a croak. “My new husband will not approve.”

Linnet glared at her over the top of the chest as she laid the sword inside it. Then she stalked over to Isobel.

“We shall wear our daggers.” Linnet flipped up the skirt of Isobel’s gown and strapped a dagger to her calf.

“But we’ll be traveling with twenty of de Roche’s men—”

“I stole an extra for each of us.” Linnet slapped a second dagger into Isobel’s hand. “Find a place to hide it on you.”

It was easier to slip the dagger through the fichu of her gown and fasten it to the belt underneath than to argue.

“You need not come with me,” Isobel said, though the thought of losing the girl, too, brought her to the brink of tears again.
“You will want to stay with François.”

“We are both coming,” Linnet said. “Sir Robert said you will have need of us.”

Isobel took Linnet’s hand and squeezed it, unable to find words to tell her how grateful she was.

Linnet jerked her hand away, still furious with her for letting this happen. Isobel leaned her head back against the stone
wall and let the tears slide down the sides of her face. She could not seem to stop weeping. Perhaps if she were not so very,
very tired.

Linnet brought a cold, wet cloth for her face. As Isobel took slow, deep breaths through the cloth, she told herself that
if she could survive eight years married to Hume, she could survive anything. Even this. She drew in one last deep breath
and set the cloth aside.

“Thank you, Linnet.” She rose to her feet, dry-eyed at last. “I am ready.”

It was still raining, so they made their good-byes inside the keep. Somehow, she managed to make the expected nods and murmurs
as she moved from group to group with de Roche.

She faltered only twice.

The first was when she saw Lady Catherine Fitz-Alan. Isobel could not help thinking Stephen would not be happy, either, in
love with his brother’s wife. Though Lady Catherine had been kindness itself when they met, she offered no good wishes now.
The blue eyes fixed on her, as if asking a burning question.

Isobel faltered again when she bade farewell to her brother and Robert. How she would miss them! All that kept her from breaking
down was Robert’s promise to visit her soon.

“Do not tell de Roche, but I go in secret to Paris now,” Robert said in a low voice when de Roche turned to speak to someone
else. “I shall come see you upon my return.”

She felt certain Robert knew what was between her and Stephen, though they never spoke of it. When he embraced her for the
last time, she could not help whispering in his ear, “He did not come. He did not come.”

“You will be happy yet, Isobel, I know it.”

Despite Robert’s effort to hide his worry behind a smile, she saw it in his eyes as he waved good-bye to her.

They had two days’ ride before them, and de Roche was anxious to be gone. With a twin on either side of her, Isobel urged
her horse forward with the rest of their party.

As they crossed the bailey yard, she turned for a last look at the storeroom along the wall where she spent so many happy
hours practicing. Where she and Stephen first kissed.

A movement on top of the wall drew her eye upward. A dark, hooded figure stood against the gray sky, black cape flapping in
the wind.

Stephen had come to see her off, after all.

Though she could not make out his face, she felt his eyes burning into her long after she rode out the gate.

God help her, she loved him. Her life was in ruins.

E
ven with an escort of twenty men, the road to Rouen was dangerous. They rode hard, rarely stopping, except to camp a few hours
overnight on the bank of the Seine. Isobel was past exhaustion by the time she saw the towers and church spires of Rouen on
the horizon at dusk on the second day.

A formidable city. The city walls went on forever and had more towers than she could count. Weary as she was, she could not
help wondering how King Henry hoped to take it.

The others must be tired, as well. The entire party slowed to a sluggish pace now that Rouen was within sight. By the time
they passed through the city’s massive gates, it was full dark.

De Roche dropped back to ride beside her. “Follow close behind me,” he told her. “The house is not far now.”

Isobel fought to stay awake as she followed de Roche’s horse through the narrow, winding streets. Every few yards, she turned
to check on the twins, who rode, heads bobbing, just behind her.

At last they came to a halt before the gate of a massive, walled house. De Roche helped her down. Her legs, stiff from riding
all day, gave way as he set her to the ground.

Strong arms lifted her. The man’s smell was wrong, but she could not summon the strength to open her eyes. She heard hushed
voices around her. Then there was nothing but the lulling, rocking motion of being carried upstairs.

Isobel sat straight up, heart racing, not knowing where she was. When she saw Linnet amid the tangle of bedclothes beside
her, she put her hand to her chest. Thank God. She took a deep breath to calm herself. But then the events of the last days
came back to her.

Slowly, she lay back down on the bed.

Memories of Stephen ran through her head. Stephen, speaking in a cold voice of what she must and must not do. Strapping on
his belt and sword, too angry to look at her. His face when he understood what she had done. The echo of his boots as he left
the hall.

And the last time she would ever see him: A dark figure on the wall, cape flapping in the wind.

God give her strength.

She wept silently, trying not to waken Linnet, but her sobs shook the bed. She forced herself to take slow, deep breaths.
Nothing was to be gained by more weeping. Blinking back her tears, she sat up and pushed the heavy bed curtain aside.

It was late, judging by the light. Though she was grateful de Roche had saved her from meeting his mother last night, she
must not delay making the acquaintance of her mother-in-law any longer. The woman would think badly of her.

Isobel stood on the cold floor, hugging herself, and looked about the bedchamber. It was a dark and austere room, the only
furniture the bed, a bench, and a table with pitcher and basin. What light there was came from the adjoining room.