Knight of Pleasure (39 page)

Forgiveness made her feel light, happy. She turned, smiling, to Stephen.

He gave her one of his slow winks, full of the devil. “As soon as your father leaves, we’ll lock the wild heathens in with
their poor nursemaid, and…”

Isobel threw her head back and laughed for the sheer joy of it.

The map of Europe might be different today if Henry V had not died in the prime of his life at the age of thirty-five. At
the time of his death in 1422, he controlled all of Normandy and was well on his way to becoming the ruler of France. To make
peace with Henry, the French king agreed to marry his daughter to Henry, disinherit his son the Dauphin, and name Henry as
his heir.

Under this arrangement, Henry permitted the ailing King Charles to remain the nominal king during his lifetime. This would
have been a politically astute move had Henry outlived his father-in-law and been crowned king of France. The long years of
fighting, however, took a heavy toll on Henry’s health. During the lengthy winter siege of Meaux in 1421–1422, he fell ill,
probably with dysentery. By July, he was so ill he had to be carried on the campaign in a litter. He was dying when he was
brought to the castle at Vincennes, outside Paris, where his French princess waited. He died August 31, 1422, predeceasing
his father-in-law by two months.

Henry left a nine-month-old babe as heir to two kingdoms. The men who ruled on his son’s behalf were for the most part good
men who did their best to carry out Henry’s vision. However, none was Henry’s equal.

If Henry had lived, he might have succeeded in securing all of France. He might, on the other hand, have cut his losses and
settled for Normandy when Joan of Arc came along. It seems extremely unlikely he would have lost it all, as his son eventually
did.

I should mention that there is some dispute among historians as to whether there was a massacre when the English took Caen.
I assumed there was one because it served my story. If a massacre did occur, it would have been contrary to the king’s orders.
Henry V prohibited his soldiers from committing the rape and mayhem that was common for victorious armies at the time.

Henry V was held up as the ideal to which later kings should aspire. For many years after his death, men sought to preserve
his legacy and carry out his will. They continued to be The King’s Men.

London

October 30, 1425

T
he stench of the Thames made Sir James Rayburn’s eyes water as he rode through the angry crowd. The “Winchester geese,” the
prostitutes who worked this side of the river under the bishop’s regulation, would not do much business today. The men filling
the street were not here to seek pleasures banned inside the city; they were spoiling for a fight.

Earlier, Jamie had crossed the river to gauge the mood within the city of London—and found it on the verge of riot.

The crowd grew thicker as he neared London Bridge. Men glared at him but moved out of the way of his warhorse. As he pushed
through them, his thoughts returned to the evening before. There had been far too many men-at-arms at the bishop’s palace.

Over supper last night, Jamie had tried to discern the bishop’s intent in bringing so many armed men to Winchester Palace.
Under the bishop’s watchful eye, however, no one dared speak of it. Instead, they pressed Jamie for news of the fighting in
France.

He obliged them, telling them of the recent battle against the Dauphin’s forces at Verneuil. As he warmed to his tale, the
ladies leaned forward, hands pressed to their creamy bosoms. He liked to tell stories. Just when he had begun to enjoy himself,
Linnet’s words came back to him.

What you need, Jamie Rayburn, is a dull English wife who will be content to spend her evenings listening to you recite tiresome
tales of your victories.

After all these years, Linnet’s ridicule still rankled. He had brought his story to an abrupt end last night and left the
bishop’s hall for bed. Damn the woman. Five years since he’d seen her, and she could still ruin his evening.

Calling him boring was the least of Linnet’s crimes against him. No matter that she was not even sixteen at the time. Next
to her, he’d been a babe in the woods. It embarrassed him to recall how he had worn his heart on his sleeve back then. While
he professed eternal love and adoration, Linnet used him without a shred of guilt or regret.

After the debacle, he left Paris at once in the hope of reaching England before his letter. But nay. He had to suffer the
additional mortification of telling his family he and Linnet were not betrothed, after all. Someone should have told him that
men value a woman’s virginity far more than women do themselves. He had mistaken the gift of hers as a gift of her heart—and
a pledge of marriage.

Never again would he let a woman humiliate him like that.

That did not mean he’d sworn off women. In sooth, he had bedded any number of them in his determination to wipe Linnet’s memory
from his mind. Most of the time he succeeded.

Thinking of her now put him in a foul mood. Suddenly, he could not breathe with all these people around him. He had seen enough.
The message he must send back to France was clear: the situation at home in England was far worse than they had feared.

The conflict between Gloucester and his uncle, the Bishop of Winchester, had been simmering for months. This dispute between
two members of the royal family was far more dangerous now that it had spilled over into the streets.

As Jamie turned his horse to head back toward the bishop’s palace, someone grabbed hold of his boot. He lifted his whip but
checked his arm when he saw it was an old man.

“Please, sir, help me!”

The old fellow’s eye was purple with a fresh bruise. From the livery he wore, he was not a part of the rabble, but a servant
of a nobleman.

Jamie leaned down. “What can I do for you?”

“The crowd separated me from my mistress,” the man said, his voice high and frantic. “Now they’ve taken my horse, and I cannot
reach her.”

Sweet Lamb of God, a lady was alone in this mob? “Where? Where is she?”

The old man pointed toward the bridge. When Jamie turned to look, he wondered how he had missed her before. London Bridge
was three hundred yards long, with shops and houses projecting off both sides. But in the gap where the drawbridge was, Jamie
had a clear view of a lady in a bright blue and yellow gown. She sat astride a white palfrey, sticking out from the horde
around her like a peacock atop a dunghill.

“Out of my way! Out of my way!” Jamie shouted, waving his whip from side to side above the heads of the crowd. Men flung themselves
aside to avoid the hooves of his horse as he forced his way forward through the throng.

As he rode up onto the bridge, he heard the familiar sound of an army on the move. He turned and saw men-at-arms marching
up the river from the bishop’s palace. God’s blood, the bishop had even sent archers.

Jamie had heard a rumor that Gloucester intended to ride to Eltham Castle to take custody of the three-year-old king. Such
a move might well cause the bishop to fear Gloucester meant to usurp the throne. Apparently, the bishop had decided to stop
his nephew at the bridge by force of arms.

God help them all.

But in the meantime, Jamie needed to rescue the fool woman caught between the forces of the two feuding royals in the goddamned
middle of London Bridge.

The mass of people caught on the bridge began to panic as word spread of the men-at-arms marching toward them. As Jamie pushed
his way over the first part of the bridge, their shouts echoed off the buildings that connected overhead.

He was still twenty yards from the lady when he heard her scream. Sweet Jesus, hands were grabbing at her, attempting to pull
her off the horse. She fought back like a savage, striking at them with her whip.

Someone caught hold of her headdress. Despite the noise on the bridge, Jamie heard the gasps of the men around her as a cascade
of white-gold hair fell over her shoulders to her hips.

The air went out of him. There was only one woman in Christendom with hair like that. Linnet.

And she was in grave danger.

“Do not touch her!” he roared. He raised his sword and pulled the reins, making his horse rear to clear his way. He pushed
forward with vicious resolve.

As he fought his way the last few yards through the seething mass, he heard Linnet’s voice over the clamor, cursing the men
in both French and English.

A burly man gripped her thigh with a filthy hand, and murder roiled through Jamie. Linnet looked up then and saw him. Her
eyes went wide and her lips parted, and all the sounds around him faded away.

In that moment when she was diverted, the burly man caught her arm that held the whip. Another man yanked at her belt. Through
the blood pounding in his ears, Jamie heard her bloodcurdling scream as they pulled her off her horse.

“Hold on, Linnet!” he shouted.

She was hanging off the side, clutching at her saddle with both hands. God help him, she would be trampled to death in another
moment. Her horse had remained remarkably steady until now. With its rider unsaddled, however, it was wild-eyed, tossing its
head and sidestepping into the crowd. Jamie’s heart went to his throat as Linnet swung sideways and slammed against her horse’s
side.

The men, whose hold was snapped by the horse’s movement, were grasping at her skirts as the horse flung her from side to side.
She was hanging on by one hand when Jamie finally broke through. With one sweep of his sword, he slashed the two men as he
leaned down, caught Linnet around the waist with his other arm, and lifted her up onto his horse.

Praise God, he had her! Now he just had to get her off this damned bridge before arrows started flying.

“My horse!” she said, twisting to look over his shoulder.

Without warning, she leaned over the side of his horse with both arms outstretched. Was the woman mad? He gripped her tighter
as she reached out to catch hold of her horse’s loose rein with her fingertips.

She sat up and gave him a triumphant grin as she held it up in her hand. Good God, she hadn’t changed a bit. She was happiest
in the midst of tumult and trouble. He wouldn’t be half surprised to discover it was she, and not Gloucester, who caused the
riot.

“Don’t gloat,” he said in a harsh voice. “We could be killed yet.”

Her eyes flicked to the side, and she brought her whip down on an arm reaching for her horse’s bridle. She was as fearless
and bold as when she was a girl. He resented that he still admired her for it.

He turned his horse and shouted at the crowd, “Get off the bridge! Get off the bridge!”

The panicked mass of people surged against them like rolling swells against a ship at sea. Linnet ignored his repeated command
to “Let go of the damned horse and hold on.” Instead, she held tight to her horse’s reins, slashing at anyone who tried to
grab them.

Since she was doing nothing to hold herself on to his horse, he held her tight—so tight his fingers would probably leave bruises
on her ribs. She felt so slight against him. It seemed a miracle she had been able to fight off those men and stay on her
horse for so long. Anyone who touched her now would be a dead man. He was a battle-hardened knight. Now that he had her, he
had no doubt he could protect her from the rabble.

Flying arrows, however, were another matter.

Somehow, he managed to reach the end of the bridge a hair’s breadth before the bishop’s men-at-arms got there and blocked
the way. He rode east along the river, away from the bridge and the crowd, until his heartbeat returned to normal.

They were a quarter mile down the river before he said, “What in God’s name were you doing on the bridge? An idiot could see
that was no place to be today.”

Linnet turned around to look at him. This time, with the danger past, his heart did a flip-flop in his chest. In addition
to everything else she was, did she have to be so beautiful? It was the curse of his life.

“ ’Tis nice to see you, too, Jamie Rayburn.” She cocked her head and raised an eyebrow. “After all this time, I expected a
better greeting.”

He fixed his gaze dead ahead and grunted. God in heaven, how could she be so cool after what happened on the bridge?

When she leaned lightly against him, his chest prickled with sensation. Lust and longing took him like a fever. He should
put her on her own horse now. He wanted to pretend she was too distressed to ride alone, but the thought was ridiculous. This
one small weakness he would allow himself. It meant nothing.

“I heard you were with Bedford in France,” she said.

“Mmmph.”

“When did you arrive in London?”