Knight of Pleasure (35 page)

The man did not even flinch.

Their swords flew in a blur of movement as they parried and thrust back and forth. Stephen worked his way closer to Isobel.
When de Roche turned and staggered toward Isobel, Stephen gave de Roche a kick that sent him sprawling at her feet.

“Isobel, here!” He tossed his short blade onto the bed and shouted at her, “Kill him now! While he is down!”

Stephen dropped to the floor. As he rolled, he felt the wind from the blade passing over his head. It would do Isobel no good
to kill de Roche if he let this son of Satan get the better of him. She stood no chance against a man as skilled as this.

With Stephen on the floor, his opponent committed fully to his thrust, believing it to be the final one. Stephen sprang to
his feet, sword forward. Before his opponent could recover and withdraw, Stephen slashed the man’s sword arm.

The man did not spare a glance at the blood soaking his sleeve. The wound was not fatal, but his eyes held a fury that might
serve, as well. Rage could cloud a man’s judgment and make him rash.

Not so with Stephen. His anger was hard and cold. It sharpened his senses and focused his mind.

He pressed the worthless scum, attacking again and again and again, until he pushed him into a corner. His opponent had no
room to maneuver, no means to escape Stephen’s sword. Stephen saw his opening. Right through to the heart, in one swift thrust.
Just as he was poised to deliver the piercing blow, Isobel cried out behind him.

Stephen fell a half step back and took a quick look over his shoulder. Sweet Lamb of God! Isobel’s chest was covered in blood!
The breath went out of him.

De Roche was sliding down her body to the floor, leaving a swath of blood. Isobel stood, a bloodied knife raised in her hand.
The blood was de Roche’s. Not hers, praise God! The realization took no more than an instant.

But it was time enough for his opponent to knock the sword from his hand.

Stephen backed up slowly, one step at a time. For a certainty, he could not save himself. What he must do is live long enough
after the first blow to take the man with him.

“You cannot save her,” the man said with a thin smile, guessing Stephen’s intent. “No man is that good.”

The man inched forward, backing Stephen closer to the bed and Isobel.

“ ’Tis a pity I cannot spare her, since she saved me the trouble of killing de Roche,” the man said. “I came to regret helping
him wed my half sister.”

“Odd that bigamy should offend you when murder does not.”

“What are a few monks more or less?” the man said, lifting an eyebrow. “I have but one sister, and I would not have her shamed.”

Stephen decided how he would do it. He would deflect the sword from his heart with his left arm and grab the dagger from the
man’s belt with his right. By the time the man brought his sword back, Stephen would be plunging the dagger up under the man’s
breastbone.

Neither would live, but Isobel would get away.

Stephen took another step back from the point of the man’s sword. He felt Isobel just behind him. It was time.

“Your hand,” she whispered.

Cautiously, he brought one arm to his side. When her hand brushed his, he felt a rush of gratitude. One last touch before
he died. He sucked in his breath and prepared to make his move.

W
ith LeFevre’s attention riveted on Stephen, Isobel sidestepped to the foot of the bed as quickly as she dared. One half step.
Then another. And another.

LeFevre closed in slowly, as if approaching a cornered animal that might prove dangerous and unpredictable. The end of the
deadly dance was near, and both men knew it.

Isobel slipped her arm under the folds of the half-fallen bed curtain. She reached back between the mattress and the bed frame
until she felt it. Cold steel, welcome and familiar.

The mattress held the scabbard in place as she slid the blade free. Under cover of the fallen curtain, she brought the sword
to her side. Stephen was so close now she could feel his heat, feel the tension running through him.

And then she knew, as clearly as if he said it aloud. Stephen was about to sacrifice himself to save her.

“Your hand,” she whispered.

When the side of his hand brushed hers, she pressed the hilt of the sword against it.

Stephen moved so fast then, she did not even see him strike. But LeFevre was falling, mouth open in surprise, the telltale
spot of blood over his heart. His head made a dull thud as it hit the floor.

Stephen whirled around and crushed her against him.

Like a rushing river, the terror she had held at bay flooded through her. She buried her face in his shoulder.

“I thought you were gone,” she whispered.

His arms tightened around her. “I could not leave you.”

She drew in a deep breath. His familiar smell comforted her. Wrapped in the strength of his arms, she felt safe for the first
time since leaving Caen. Safe. She was safe at last.

Much too soon, he pulled away.

Stephen’s face was strained, but he gave her a small smile. “You must be brave a little longer. Someone may have heard us.
We must be gone.”

She straightened and nodded. This was no time for weakness. When she felt the chill of wetness and looked down, she faltered.
Her shirtfront was soaked with de Roche’s blood.

“I will give you a clean shirt when we are out.” Using the torn curtain, Stephen wiped the blood from her face and neck. Then
he kissed her forehead and squeezed her hand.

“I have horses waiting outside,” Stephen said and handed her sword to her.

“That is—was—de Roche’s cousin, Thomás LeFevre,” she said, pointing to the other body on the floor. “The letter was from him,
not Trémoille.”

Stephen wiped his dagger clean of de Roche’s blood and stuck it in his belt.

“We must warn the king,” she said as he led her into the solar. “Others may go forward with the plot. They are Armagnacs,
so it will not happen at the Easter knighting, as I believed.”

By this time, Stephen had unwound a rope from his waist and fastened one end of it to the bench under the window. He handed
her the other dagger, cleaned of blood.

“We’ll talk later,” he said and lifted her onto the bench.

Isobel held on to Stephen as he instructed. Hand over hand, he took her down the rope. As soon as her feet touched the ground,
he took her hand and led her from the courtyard into the house. It was pitch-black inside.

Relief flooded through her as she stepped out the door to the stable yard. They made it! She saw the outline of horses in
the shadows by the gate.

Wait, was there a rider on one of the horses? She tightened her grip on Stephen’s hand. He cursed under his breath but did
not slow his pace.

When they reached the horses, he said in a harsh whisper, “I told you to wait at the city gates!”

“I heard the shouts and thought you would need me.”

François! She wanted to weep for joy at hearing the boy’s voice. Before she could run to him, Stephen lifted her onto a horse.
In another moment, the three of them were out the gate and trotting down a narrow lane away from the house.

“We must stop at the house on Rue St. Romain,” Stephen said to François. “ ’Tis on the way.”

She saw the gleam of François’s teeth in the dark and wondered what on earth could make him smile tonight. And why Stephen
would take the risk of stopping somewhere.

They rode down back streets, with François leading and Stephen at the rear keeping watch to see that no one followed.

When they drew their horses up before the door of an elegant house, François piped up, “Let me get her for you.”

Stephen said, “Stay here and keep quiet.”

Stephen spoke in undertones to the servant who answered the door. A short time later, a woman appeared. Her long, fair hair
fell loose over a red silk robe. As she drew Stephen inside, her husky laugh drifted through the night air.

“Who is that?” Isobel whispered to François.

“A friend of Madame Champdivers.”

A “friend” of Marie’s! Despite all his other lies, had de Roche spoken the truth about Stephen and the beautiful courtesan?
What hold did the woman have on Stephen that he would come here now, in the midst of their escape?

“She is very, very beautiful,” François said with a sigh.

The door opened again, casting a wedge of light on the narrow street. As Stephen kissed the woman’s cheek, Isobel saw her
press a pouch into his hand. Without a word of explanation, he mounted his horse and signaled for François to lead.

Isobel should have expected the city gates to be barred at this late hour. Still, her bowels turned liquid when the guards
came out of the gatehouse, weapons drawn.

“My good fellows!” Stephen called out. He held a hand up in a calming gesture as he dismounted.

After a brief exchange, Stephen held up the pouch the woman had given him and swept his arm toward the other men circled about
them. Then he shook the pouch into the outstretched hand of one of the guards. Glittering coins overflowed the man’s palm
and spilled onto the ground.

When the guard grabbed Stephen’s shoulder, Isobel broke out in a cold sweat.

What?
Were they laughing? The guard pounded Stephen on the back as if they were old friends sharing a merry joke. Soon the other
guards were snickering and snorting, as well.

Stephen’s voice grew louder and she caught a few words. “… then the Englishman said, ‘Why do you think we raise so many sheep?
For wool?’ ”

Good heavens, Stephen was telling them jokes! Obscene jokes, from the sound of it. After another round of laughter, Stephen
remounted his horse, and the men opened the gate just wide enough for them to ride through single file. They departed the
city amid calls of “baa baa” and a spate of good-natured obscenities.

Stephen turned and waved as they headed down the dark road.

“How did you do that?” Isobel asked.

“Night-guard duty is dull work, and the men are always grateful for a few jokes,” Stephen said. “But it was the coins that
opened the gate. The guards’ job is to keep attackers out of the city; they can see no harm in taking a little silver to let
someone out.”

Isobel suspected Stephen had not been nearly as confident the guards would let them pass as he pretended.

“They will be repeating those awful jokes for hours,” he said. “With luck, that will divert them until we are well away.”

“When those guards came out, I imagined your head on a pike,” she said. “And I would wager you did, as well.”

“Aye,” he said. “And you imprisoned, guarded by an ugly hunchback who gives you lewd looks.”

François burst into laughter, but Isobel was thoughtful.

“We will camp in those woods for the rest of the night,” Stephen said, pointing into the darkness ahead.

“Where is Linnet?” Isobel asked, guilt-stricken that she did not think of the girl sooner.

“I sent her back to Caen with the men who came with me.”

Until this moment, she’d given no thought to the journey back to Caen. They had a long and dangerous road to travel.

But Stephen was here. He would keep them safe.

S
t. Winifred’s beard, that was close at the gate! Isobel thought he was joking when he said he imagined her held captive by
a hunchback. The image was so real he’d almost forgotten the end of that absurd sheep joke.

Because their lives depended upon it, he carried off the facade of easy bonhomie. But the sweat ran down his back.

And now? He rubbed his hand over his face and cursed himself. Riding through the countryside with no other men-at-arms was
an open invitation to the worst kind of trouble.

He felt better as they neared the wood. At least they would be safe here for the night. In the morning, he would watch the
road for a large party they might join. It would be a long night for him, keeping watch alone. He might have to tell himself
stupid sheep jokes to stay awake.

What was that?
It sounded like the snort of a horse coming from the wood. He put out his arm, signaling for the other two to stop. Praise
God, they had the sense not to speak.

His head hurt from the strain of listening so hard. What was that? A rustle of leaves? A footfall? He drew his sword soundlessly
and urged his horse forward.

“Stephen? Is that you?” came out of the darkness.

His nephew should be halfway to Caen by now. And yet it was his voice coming from the high grass just off the road.

“Jamie?”

Jamie rose up from the grass, as beautiful to Stephen as Venus rising from the water.

Jamie shouted over his shoulder, “ ’Tis my uncle!”

Several shadowy figures came out of the trees, calling greetings. The tightness around Stephen’s heart eased, and he laughed.

“I see you ignored my orders,” he said as he dismounted. He put his arm around his nephew’s shoulders. “Thank God you did!”

“In sooth, I never intended to follow them,” Jamie said. “If you did not come by morning, I was going to ride into Rouen and
get you.”

“François! Isobel! Stephen!”

Stephen heard Linnet’s shouts as she ran toward them, her fair hair shining in the darkness.

The ride back to Caen was a nightmare. Every hour, Stephen had to weigh the exhaustion of his charges and horses against the
need to reach Caen before the king departed for Chartres.

The Armagnac men who controlled the often-mad French king had proposed a secret meeting between the two monarchs at Chartres
in just a few days’ time. King Henry agreed, since such a meeting could lead to a negotiated end to the conflict. To keep
the meeting secret, King Henry would leave his army behind and travel to Chartres with only a small escort.

If the Armagnacs intended to murder King Henry, the rendezvous in Chartres provided them with the perfect opportunity.

Stephen had allowed his group only two or three hours’ rest in the wood outside Rouen. This morning, they rose early and rode
hard all day. He called a halt tonight only when darkness made riding too dangerous for the horses.