Knight of Pleasure (30 page)

“I shall do what needs be done,” Jamie said.

“I know it. You always make me proud.”

Stephen did not think the good citizens of Rouen would throw him over the wall and set him afire. But they might. So he embraced
his nephew, not caring if he embarrassed him before the other men. Ready now, he mounted Lightning and rode down to the city’s
main gate.

He arrived just as the bells of the city churches rang for Sext, the agreed-upon hour. An escort of two dozen knights met
him at the gate and accompanied him the short distance to the Palais de Justice. At the Palais, he was received with all the
tedious protocol due the English king’s representative.

It was better than throwing his lifeless body over the wall. But they could always do that later.

After the welcome, he was taken to a room in the Palais and left there “to rest from his journey.” Since the ride from the
monastery was no more than half a mile, this meant the important men of the city were not yet agreed on what to do with him.

News of the arrival of King Henry’s envoy would have spread to every corner of the city by now. If de Roche was still the
king’s man, he should find a way to have a private word with Stephen. Stephen did not expect him.

Since de Roche was a man of influence here, Stephen needed to settle the king’s business before his own. De Roche must not
suspect Isobel was leaving with Stephen before the city gave its formal reply. Better still if de Roche did not learn of her
departure until they were a good half day’s ride away.

There was little Stephen could do now but pace. After an hour or two, a servant appeared at his door to advise him there would
be a reception in his honor that evening.

De Roche was bound to attend with the other local notables. Which meant Isobel would be there, too. Stephen had to find a
way to speak to her alone so they could make their plan.

Isobel stood at the top of the stairs, dressed in her green silk gown with silver trim and matching slippers and headdress.
She smoothed the skirt one last time. Then, with trepidation in her heart, she went down the stairs.

Last night she’d been so sure de Roche would come to her that she sent Linnet to sleep with the kitchen maids. She lay awake
for hours listening for the scrape of the door. Near dawn, she heard voices below. When the house grew silent again, she finally
drifted off to sleep.

This morning, Linnet woke her with the news that de Roche had already left the house “to commit more treachery.” François
came later to tell them the city was rife with rumor that the envoy was locked up or murdered in the Palais.

All day she was tense, waiting for de Roche’s return. Finally, an hour ago, de Roche sent a servant to tell her to dress for
a grand reception at the Palais. That must mean the envoy was at the Palais—but alive and well.

The reception would be her best—perhaps her only—opportunity to give a message to the king’s envoy. If de Roche was involved
in some treachery against King Henry, she must try to learn what it was before they arrived at the Palais.

De Roche was waiting for her in the front entry. His eyes widened when he saw her.

“I would much rather stay home with you this evening,” he said as he took her arm. “But the reception is for King Henry’s
envoy, and he will expect to see you.”

“Who is the envoy?” she asked. “Do I know him?”

He shrugged. “I did not hear the name. Come, the carriage is waiting. We are late.”

She had so little time! What would be the best approach? Flattery? Pouting? She was off playing with swords when the other
girls learned these useful skills.

“ ’Tis a shame,” she said once they were settled in the carriage, “you could not even come to greet me after being gone a
week.”

De Roche’s teeth flashed in the dim light. “You missed me.”

She looked up at him through her lashes and nodded. In sooth, his almost constant absence was all that gave her hope of surviving
this marriage.

She turned her head away and gave a sniff. “I hope you had good reason to neglect me.”

He put his hand on her thigh. “I told you the men here are hardheaded,” he said, leaning closer. “It takes much effort to
persuade them to the right course.”

He began kissing her neck. When his hand went to her breast, she panicked and blurted out, “Are you with the Armagnacs now?”

De Roche sat back abruptly. In a voice so cold it sent a shiver through her, he said, “What is it that you think you know,
Isobel?”

“Nothing, I know nothing,” she said in a rush. “ ’Tis only that I worry about you. These are such dangerous times.”

He remained silent, examining her with narrowed eyes.

“You cannot think the Dauphin would ever make a proper king!” Though a part of her knew she should be quiet, the arguments
spewed out of her mouth of their own accord. “By all accounts, the Dauphin is a weak and unworthy youth. And after all the
queen’s affairs, many doubt he is the mad king’s true heir.”

God help her, what made her say it! ’Twas too late now for pretense.

“If you are planning to break with King Henry, I beg you not to do it,” she pleaded, “for your sake, as well as mine and our
future children.”

“Which one of the servants is telling you these lies?” he demanded. “I promise you, he will regret his loose tongue.”

“Please, Philippe, you must tell me if you have changed loyalties.”

“I must tell you nothing.” His voice was tight with barely controlled rage. “There is but one thing a man must do with his
wife. In that you have thwarted me, but not for long.”

“I fear for your safety if you cross King Henry,” she tried again. “He will prevail in the end.”

“Do you intend to tell tales on your husband tonight?” Bits of his spittle hit her face as he spoke. “Do I have a spy in my
own home?”

“Nay!” Her voice was high-pitched, panicked. “I would never be disloyal. I want to make a good wife.”

“Then you are unwise to displease me.” He grabbed her wrist. “I warn you, Isobel, do not leave my side tonight.”

S
tephen stood before the crowd of well-dressed merchants and nobles in the great hall of the Palais. The reception was to begin
with his formal speech pleading King Henry’s case. The king had drafted it himself, taking only a few of Stephen’s suggestions.

As Stephen unrolled the parchment, he scanned the room again. De Roche and Isobel were late.

“King Henry comes not as your conqueror, to take plunder and lay waste to the land, but as your rightful sovereign lord,”
he read in a loud voice. “To all who pledge loyalty to him, he will welcome you to his bosom with great joy and generosity.

“But be warned! If you defy him, he will crush you without mercy. He shall claim what is rightfully his. The victor of Agincourt
is rolling across Normandy, and none can stop him. God is with him. He will prevail.”

Stephen took a deep breath, glad to have the formal speech over. From Henry’s mouth to their ears: “Crush without mercy.”
He hoped the people listening in the hall tonight knew King Henry meant every word.

For the next two hours, Stephen stood at one end of the hall as the city notables took turns coming to pay their respects.

Where is Isobel?

He made himself pay attention to the useless platitudes of each person, listening for hints of what lay beneath. So far, they
seemed an overconfident lot. It mystified him how they could believe their city walls could withstand English cannon when
the famed “impregnable” walls of Falaise could not.

He heard them boasting to each other. “Burgundy will come to our defense.” “The Armagnacs will never let the great city of
Rouen fall.” What made these men think either faction would bring their armies to save Rouen? For months, both stood by as
city after city in Normandy fell.

Stephen saw the uneasy expressions on the faces of their wives. If only the decision were in the pragmatic hands of the women,
instead of these strutting cocks.

Where was Isobel? The crowd was thinning out, and she and de Roche still had not arrived.

And then he saw her. Politics, war, his official duties—all flew out of his head as Isobel and de Roche came into the hall
through a side entrance. Stephen forced his gaze to drift past them. Eventually, de Roche would have to come to him.

De Roche did not delay but came straight to him. And then Isobel stood before him—so close he could have touched her if he
reached out his arm. After so long away from her, it took all his will not to sweep her into his arms. He could almost taste
her.

How was it possible she was so beautiful? Her skin was pale, though, and she looked thin.

“Have you been ill?” he asked her.

“I am well now, thank you. And you, Sir Stephen?”

Her voice. He wanted to listen to it and nothing else. But de Roche was blathering something to him, like a gnat buzzing about
his head.

“What?” he snapped. He let his eyes burn over de Roche, letting the man see that Stephen thought he was a worthless sack of
horseshit. “The king will be displeased to hear you’ve made little progress with the city leaders. Your failure will bring
the people of Rouen to grief.”

De Roche’s face flushed a deep red. When he opened his mouth to speak, Stephen cut him off.

“Lady Hume, you are much missed in Caen,” he said as he took her hand and lifted it to his lips. Her fingers were trembling
and icy cold. “The king sends his warmest greetings.”

Keeping his eyes on hers, he said, “I hope Lord de Roche will permit me to speak with you in private before I leave the city,
for I have news of your brother.” Switching to English, he added, “And a question to ask.”

She sent a furtive glance at de Roche, who was staring fixedly at the wall above Stephen’s head. Then she gave her head an
almost imperceptible shake. That tiny movement hit Stephen like a heavy blow, knocking the wind out of him and sending him
back a step.

“Of course you may speak with her, if time allows,” de Roche said, unaware that Isobel had already given Stephen the only
answer that mattered.

There was no child. Stephen watched in a daze as de Roche took Isobel’s arm and led her away.

No child, no child. He’d been so certain.

Somehow he managed to gather himself and pretend the world was not crashing around his ears. He did his duty by his king.
But it was the longest evening of his life.

When the reception finally ended, he retired to his room and collapsed upon the bed. He stared at the ceiling. To see her
and not touch her. To talk with her and not be able to say the things he needed to say to her. It had nearly killed him.

He was so sure she was with child. Because he needed her to be. It shamed him that he wanted to use the child to force her
hand, to make her wed him instead of de Roche. In time, she would have seen it was for the best…

He heaved a sigh. What would he do now?

He could not leave without telling her what was in his heart. If she wanted him, he would find a way. How, he did not know.
But he would.

There was a rap on his door. Please, God, make them go away! When the knocking persisted, he rolled off the bed. He opened
the door and found himself looking into a pair of blue eyes beneath a head of shaggy blond hair.

“François!” He pulled the boy into the room and closed the door behind him. “ ’Tis good to see you! I swear you’ve grown still
more since you left Caen. How is your sister?”

“Truth be told, she is a constant worry to me.”

“Nothing new in that,” Stephen said, slapping the lad on the back. “You are just the man I need. Where is Isobel staying?
I need to speak with her.”

François flushed and dropped his gaze to the floor. Unease rolled through Stephen.

In a low voice the boy said, “She stays in de Roche’s house.”

Blindly, Stephen found his way to the nearest chair and fell into it. Isobel was living in the man’s house? He had not expected
this. How could she agree to it? A betrothal was difficult enough to break, but a betrothal plus consummation made a marriage.

“ ’Tis a very large house,” François said, stretching his arms wide and speaking in a quick, nervous voice. “Her rooms are
in a separate wing, and Linnet stays with her.”

“But he must have family there, some married woman responsible for guarding Isobel’s virtue.”

When the boy dropped his eyes again, Stephen was suddenly so angry he wanted to punch his fist into the stone wall. Good God,
it could not be worse.

“What was she thinking, agreeing to this… this… arrangement?” he said, throwing his hands up. Was she
trying
to torture him?

Had she done it? Had Isobel slept with the man? This time he did slam his fist against the wall. God’s beard, that hurt!

François’s eyes went wide as Stephen shook his hand out and muttered curses.

“I need to speak to Isobel alone. When is the best time to find de Roche gone?”

“He is often out late,” Francois said with a shrug. “He rarely shows himself in the hall before the midday meal.”