Knight of Pleasure (3 page)

Isobel resented both the criticism and the hurt in his voice. “Come, we must speak in private.”

With no further greeting, she turned and led him up the stairs to the solar. Here, too, he looked about with a proprietary
air, admiring the rich tapestries and costly glass window.

“Who would have thought the old man would live so long?” he said, his good cheer restored. “But now this fine castle and all
the Hume lands are yours! I told you marriage was a woman’s path to power.”

Before Isobel could step back, he took hold of her arms. “With what Hume has left you,” he said, his eyes alight, “who knows
how high you may reach next time?”

Isobel could only stare at him in horror. Could her father truly believe she would let him plan a second marriage for her?

“I know ’twas not easy,” he said, his voice softer. “But now you shall reap the reward for your sacrifice.”

“My ‘sacrifice,’ as you call it, has been for naught—at least, naught for me!” Isobel was so choked with emotion, she could
barely get the words out. “Hume gave you what you wanted the day the marriage was consummated, but he’s left me with nothing.”

“He what?”

As she looked into her father’s face, her rage returned full force. “My lord husband gave away all the lands I was to inherit.”
She wanted to pound her fists against her father’s chest like the willful child she once was. “You promised I would have my
independence once he died. You promised me!”

His fingers dug painfully into her arms. “You are mistaken. Hume had no children; his lands must come to you.”

“He has given it all to Bartholomew Graham!” she shouted at him. “My home. My lands. Every last parcel.”

“The devil take him!” her father exploded. “What reason could Hume have?”

Isobel covered her face with her hands. “Graham tricked the old fool into believing he was his son.”

“This will not stand!” Her father stormed up and down the room, eyes bulging and hands flying in the air. “We will take this
up with Bishop Beaufort. Then we shall see! Surely the king’s uncle can cure this fraud. I swear, Isobel, we shall see young
Graham imprisoned for this.”

Before the last shovel of dirt covered Hume’s body, Isobel and her father set out for Alnwick Castle. Bishop Beaufort was
at the castle on business for the king.

Isobel pulled her horse up at the bridge and eyed the sprawling stone fortress above her. As a child, she had come here often.
But that was in the days when Alnwick was home to the Earl of Northumberland—before Northumberland attempted to wrest the
crown from Henry Lancaster.

Northumberland escaped to Scotland. The more important of his co-conspirators were beheaded, the lesser dispossessed. Foolish
men, every one of them, to take on the Lancasters.

Her father, heedless as ever, spurred his horse over the river that served as Alnwick Castle’s first line of defense. Isobel
followed more slowly. Bishop Beaufort was the wiliest of all the Lancasters.

“I hear Beaufort is the richest man in all of England,” her father said as they neared the gatehouse. “God’s beard, he’s loaned
the crown vast sums for the king’s expedition to Normandy.”

“Hush!” she whispered. “Do not forgot he was half brother to our last king.”
The king you committed treason against.

“I have my pardon from young King Henry,” he said, but he was not as confident as he pretended. Beads of sweat stood out on
his forehead as they rode through the barbican, the narrow passage designed to trap an enemy inside the main gate.

They were escorted into the keep and shut in a small anteroom to await the bishop’s pleasure. Almost at once, an immaculately
dressed servant came to usher her father into the great hall for an audience. Isobel was left to stew while two men discussed
her fate.

She was surprised when the servant returned a short time later without her father.

“His Grace the Bishop wishes to see you now, m’lady.” She must have been too slow to rise to her feet, for he arched an eyebrow
and said, “His Grace is a busy man.”

She walked through the massive wooden door he held open for her and entered an enormous hall with high ceilings that drew
the eye ever upward like a church.

There was no mistaking the man behind the heavy wooden table near the hearth. She would have known Bishop Beaufort by the
power he exuded, even if he had not worn the vestments of his office—a gold silk chasuble over a snowy white linen alb with
apparels worked in silk and gold at the wrists.

The bishop did not look up from his papers as she crossed the room. When she took her place before the table beside her father,
she saw that the parchment in the bishop’s hands was her copy of Hume’s property conveyance.

Her father poked his elbow in her side and winked. His conversation with the bishop must have gone well, praise God!

“I do not believe,” the bishop said, his eyes still on the document, “the transfer of Hume’s property can be challenged.”

Stunned by the bishop’s swift dismissal of her cause, she shot a look at her father. His nod did not reassure her.

“Your father suggests a reasonable solution,” the bishop said, snapping her attention back to him. “Under the circumstances,
the only honorable course open to Graham is to wed you. I shall see that he makes the offer.”

The bishop picked up a new sheaf of papers, dismissing both her and her problem.

“But I have already refused him.” Her voice seemed to echo in the cavernous hall. “I do not mean to be ungrateful for your
kind assistance, Your Grace,” she added hastily. “But I could not marry the man who stole my property. He is wholly without
honor.”

The bishop set his papers aside and truly looked at her for the first time. Powerful as he was, he could not move her; she
met his eyes so he would know it. Instead of irritation, she saw keen interest in the sharp gaze he leveled at her.

“Let me speak alone with your daughter,” he said without taking his eyes from hers. Though spoken politely enough, it was
not a request.

When the door closed behind her father, the bishop motioned for her to sit. She sat, hands clasped in her lap, and willed
herself to stay calm as the bishop inspected her.

“Let us review your choices, Lady Hume,” he said, touching his steepled fingers to his chin. “First, you can accept Graham.
With him, you keep your home, maintain your position.”

She opened her mouth to object and snapped it closed again.

“Second, you can return to your father’s care. With the generous dowry your father will provide”—the pointed look he gave
her made it clear he knew the humiliating terms of her first marriage—“I am confident the next husband he finds for you will
be as suitable as the last.”

He paused, as though to give her time to consider. Time, however, could improve neither choice.

Please God, is there no escape for me? None at all?

“I can offer you a third choice,” the bishop said in a slow, deliberate voice. He reached out and rested his long, tapered
fingers on a rolled parchment at the side of his table. “I just received a letter from my nephew. He has taken Caen.”

“God preserve him,” she murmured. Desperately, she tried to think of what reason he could have for telling her of King Henry’s
progress in reclaiming English lands in Normandy. The bishop did not seem like a man to speak without purpose.

“The king is anxious to strengthen the ties between England and Normandy. Come spring, Parliament will offer incentives to
English merchants to settle there.”

Merchants? What could this have to do with her?

“Alliances among the nobility are even more important.” He tapped the rolled parchment with his forefinger. “The king asks
for my assistance in making such… arrangements.”

Her thoughts seemed thick and slow as she struggled to understand the import of his words.

“I offer you the opportunity to enter into a marriage advantageous to you,” he said. “And to England.”

Her breath caught. “In Normandy?”

“You must marry someone,” the bishop said, turning his palm up on the table. He leaned forward a fraction and narrowed his
eyes. “I think perhaps you are a woman who would prefer the devil you do not know over the devil you do.”

Knowing she was being played by a master did not help her one whit.

The bishop drummed his fingers lightly on the table.

She tried to think it through. A stranger could hardly be worse than Graham. And if she were in Normandy, she could watch
over her brother. But how could she agree to wed a man she knew nothing about?

The bishop drummed his fingers again.

“Would I be permitted to meet the French ‘devil’ first, before committing to marry him?”

An appreciative smile briefly touched the bishop’s lips, but he shook his head. “Even if you leave before a betrothal can
be arranged, you will be bound by your pledge to the king.” He arched one thin eyebrow. “Do you have some…
requirement
… you wish me to pass on to the king?”

A knight, brave and true, good and kind. The description of a Camelot knight came to her, quite inexplicably. Flushing, she
shook her head.

“After your father’s… misjudgments… of the past,” the bishop said, his nostrils flaring ever so slightly, “such a marriage
would do much to restore your family to the king’s good graces.”

“May I have time to consider, Your Grace?”

“Of course.” With a glimmer in his eye he said, “Soon the crossing will be impossible until spring, but I am sure you wish
to spend the long winter months here, with your father.”

Oh, he was a clever man.

The bishop rose to his feet. “I leave for Westminster in three days. Until then, you may send a message to me here.”

With no further word, he swept out of the room.

Duchy of Normandy

October 1417

S
ir Stephen Carleton awoke to a blinding headache. He lay still, listening to the distant sound of wind and rain, and tried
to recall where he was. Aye, he was with King Henry’s army in Normandy. In the town of Caen, in fact.

But where, precisely, in Caen?

Giving up, he slit one eye open and winced at the dim light. It came through an arrow slit, so he was somewhere in the castle.
But this was not his bedchamber. And what was he doing in bed when it was yet daylight—

He groaned. Gingerly, he turned his head for confirmation. Upon seeing the bare shoulder and tousled blond hair, he squeezed
his eyes shut again. Marie de Lisieux. God help him, she was a lot of woman to forget.

He edged his arm out from under her, taking great care not to disturb her. Pleased at his success, he sat up and swung his
legs over the side of the bed—much, much too quickly.

Resting his head in his hands to recover, he looked down at his limp member and wondered if it would ever rise again. The
woman was insatiable. No wonder her husband turned a blind eye to her infidelities; the man was grateful for the respite.

How had he ended up in bed with her again? A wave of self-loathing washed over him, making him desperate for a drink. Ironic,
since drink was what had gotten him here. But drink kept at bay the visions that plagued him.

Aye, drink helped. And women, of course.

There were plenty of men to drink with in a town overrun with soldiers. And, for him, there were always willing women. Which
one hardly mattered. He had even less expectation of finding a woman who could make him happy than he did of achieving knightly
glory in this wretched war.

He wondered what it would be like to be with a woman who was strong and brave and clever. A woman who would not settle for
him being less than the man he could be.

Could she save him? Was he worth saving?

He knew only one woman like that, and he did not expect to meet another. Still, he enjoyed women. Talking with them. Flirting
with them. Bedding them. He did not have to be fully sober, however, to know the one asleep beside him was a mistake.

Keeping a watchful eye on Marie’s still form, he eased himself down from the bed. She slept like the dead, the saints be praised.
When he leaned over to gather his clothes, his head throbbed so violently he feared he would be sick. He waited for his stomach
to settle before pulling the shirt and tunic over his head. Teetering on one foot, he nearly fell as he struggled into his
leggings.

He grabbed his boots in one hand, his belt and sword in the other, and made his escape.

God’s beard, the corridor was freezing!

He could see now he was in the castle’s keep. But whose bedchamber was that? It would be just like Marie to take him to another
lover’s bed. The woman thrived on trouble.

Caen Castle was huge, with numerous buildings scattered across acres of bailey yard. The walk to the main gate was almost
long enough to clear his head. When he finally crossed the bridge into the Old Town, he entered the first public house he
found.

He was still there hours later, drinking with a boisterous group of soldiers, when he felt eyes upon him. The familiar form
of his half brother, Lord William FitzAlan, filled the doorway. When the other men noticed the great commander, they fumbled
to their feet and offered to make room. William kept his gaze on Stephen.

Stephen poured more wine into his cup and ignored his brother. When one of his companions called out, “May God bring us more
victories,” he did not raise his cup with the others. But he drank it down all the same.

He poured another and decided to make his own toast.

“God grant us victory,” he said, clutching the edge of the table, “even if we must starve women and children to achieve it.”

Before he saw William move, his brother had an iron grip on his arm and was leading him out the door. Outside, William slammed
him up against the wall.

William cupped Stephen’s chin and jaw in his hand. With his face so close their noses nearly touched, he said, “God in heaven,
Stephen, what am I to do with you?”

Drunk or sober, Stephen would not let any other man lay hands on him. But this was William. “ ’Tis a long time since I’ve
been your responsibility, big brother.”