Knight of Pleasure (4 page)

“I have served as both father and brother to you for far too many years to stand by and let you do this to yourself!”

William released his hold and leaned heavily against the wall beside Stephen. In a quiet voice he said, “We did what we could.
You must try to put it behind you.”

Stephen did not want to talk about what happened the day the siege of Caen broke and the English army swarmed through the
town. By the time he and William reached the market square, English soldiers were massacring the crowd of women, children,
and old men gathered there. He and William rode through the melee, swinging their swords in the air, shouting and pushing,
until at last the order to halt was heard and obeyed.

The images of that day would not leave him.

When it was over, Stephen walked through the carnage in the square. The wails of women filled his ears, and the smell of blood
choked him as he stepped over broken bodies of children and old men. When he looked down, a child’s severed arm lay before
his bloody boot. He leaned against a wall and vomited until his knees were weak.

“This is not the path to glory I expected when we came to fight the French,” he said.

“King Henry’s army slaughtering old men, women, and children!” William said, his voice hard with anger. “I never thought to
see it.”

“You must have known. Why else did you order Jamie to remain outside the city walls that day?” Despite the accusation in his
voice, Stephen was immensely grateful his nephew did not witness the slaughter in the square.

“The lad is only fifteen,” William objected. “ ’Tis true I suspected trouble, though not as foul as that. The men were full
of bloodlust after our knight was burned to death.”

The city defenders had thrown bales of burning straw onto the knight, who lay injured in the ditch at the base of the wall.
Unable to reach their man, listening to his screams, the English sat by their campfires in frustrated rage.

“And the king?” Stephen asked, though he knew the answer.

“He believes the people brought the wrath of God upon themselves,” William said in a grim voice. “They had only to submit
to him as their rightful sovereign to escape their fate.”

“The women and children had no part in the city’s decision to hold out against us.”

“The killing was against the king’s orders, and he’ll not allow it to happen again.” William took in a deep breath and let
it out. “The other towns will fall quickly now.”

“So the slaughter served a purpose,” Stephen said, his voice tight. “Our king is nothing if not strategic.”

“You are incautious with your opinions,” William said, though without much force. “If the people here had the sense God gave
them, they would welcome us. The French nobility are a blight upon the land. Both Burgundy and Armagnac factions pillage the
countryside for their own enrichment.”

“ ’Tis a shame the French armies will not fight us. I hoped to win great battles for England.” Embarrassed, Stephen elbowed
William and tried for a lighter tone. “Like my famous brother.”

“By God, I never thought I would miss fighting the Scots,” William said as he heaved himself away from the wall. “Come, I’ll
walk with you to the castle. You need to get your sleep—you have an appointment with the king early on the morrow.”

Stephen felt the remaining effects of the drink drain out of him. “Called in a favor for your feckless little brother, have
you?”

“Feckless perhaps, but hardly little.” William clouted him on the back. “And I called in no favors. God knows why, but the
king has seen something special in you since you were a lad. He says he has an assignment for you.”

“What is it?”

William shrugged. “He did not say.”

They walked in companionable silence through the castle gate and into the castle grounds. During the day the bailey yard was
busy with soldiers, but it was peaceful this time of night. They were nearly to the Old Palace, where Stephen shared a chamber
with his nephew, before William spoke again.

“You should ask the king’s permission to return to Northumberland. ’Tis time you claimed the Carleton lands.”

“I am not so foolish as that! Mother and Catherine will be relentless, once I have the property, to make a good match.” Why
was his unmarried state such a thorn in their sides?

“They want to see you settled before you fall into serious trouble over some woman.” William shook his head. “And they are
right. ’Tis bound to happen.”

Stephen ignored the remark; he’d heard it before.

After a time, William said, “There is much to be said for a life with wife and children, on lands of one’s own. God knows,
Catherine is the source of all my happiness.”

“As I’ve always told you,” Stephen said, forcing a laugh, “if you find me a woman like her, I’ll be wed as soon as the banns
can be posted.”

Catherine was beautiful, courageous, full of opinions and laughter. He’d adored her from the age of twelve, when his mother
sent him to live with William and his new wife.

“I wish to God Catherine were here now,” William said, his tone sour. “You would not behave like this if she were here to
see it.”

Stephen shrugged, acknowledging the truth of it. In his youth, it had always been easier to face William’s anger than Catherine’s
disappointment. Even now, he would do anything to please her.

Well, almost anything. At least here in Normandy, he was free of her attempts to get him betrothed to some pliant and exceedingly
dull young lady of good family and fortune.

Aye, he knew he must marry. But he was only five and twenty! With luck, he could put that duty off for many years.

Stephen sat in the Great Hall of the Exchequer, drumming his fingers. Damn. He should have risen early enough to join the
king for Mass in the chapel.

At the sound of boots, he jumped to his feet. King Henry swept into the hall, trailed by several soldiers who served as his
personal guard. With a curt nod, the king released Stephen from his bow.

Stephen sighed inwardly as the king scrutinized him in the long silence that followed. Though he had taken care in dressing
for this ungodly early appointment, there was naught he could do about his bloodshot eyes. King Henry indulged in neither
women nor drink; he had little tolerance for those who did.

“How can I be of service to you, sire?” Stephen smiled and gave a deferential nod to temper his boldness in speaking first.

“Perhaps you could explain to me,” the king said, clasping his hands behind his back, “why a man who is so easily amused must
devote so much time to seeking amusement.”

Stephen dropped the smile. Had he been so indiscreet that word of his behavior had reached even the king’s ears?

“I have better use for your talents, Stephen Carleton.”

Stephen detected no trace of sarcasm in the king’s tone. A good sign, perhaps. “I am, as always, at your disposal, sire.”

He wondered again what assignment the king had for him. He desperately wanted a military command, but he would be satisfied
with rounding up renegades. Anything, so long as it was dangerous and diverting.

“My subjects here must see that I come not to conquer, but to rule as their rightful sovereign. ’Tis time to establish order
and good governance in the lands we have thus far reclaimed. To that end, I have appointed Sir John Popham as bailli of Caen.
I want you to assist him.”

Stephen could not believe what he was hearing. “You want me to be… to be…” He had to grope for the word, and it felt distasteful
in his mouth when he found it. “An
administrator?
But I am a skilled knight, sire.”

“You would make a fine commander, as well,” the king said in a flat voice. “But until a French army is willing to face us
in battle, I have more commanders than I need.”

Two years before, the English army decimated the cream of French chivalry at the Battle of Agincourt in a defeat so resounding
it would be remembered through the ages. The French commanders had studiously avoided fighting the young English king head-to-head
ever since.

“What I need is a man of wit and charm who can earn the people’s trust,” the king said. “Your charge is to hear their complaints,
resolve their disputes fairly, and convince them they are better off under English rule.”

Sweet Lamb of God.
“I am glad to be of service, sire.”

“Leave us,” the king called out. When the heavy doors closed behind the soldiers keeping guard at the entrance, the king said,
“I knew I chose the right man. No one would guess from your countenance you are seething.”

The smile on the king’s face brought to mind a cat with an injured bird under his paw.

“That deceptive charm,” the king continued, “and your much-lauded talent for learning secrets, will prove valuable in your
second assignment, as well.”

It was a family joke that no secret was safe from him. Stephen tried to guess which of his loved ones saw fit to share this
with the king. His musings were stopped dead as a panel in the wall behind the king swung open. When a tall, elegantly dressed
man with distinctive white-blond hair stepped through the opening, Stephen re-sheathed his sword.

“Robert!” Stephen shouted. “What are you doing in Normandy? Does William know?”

He and Robert thumped each other on the back, then stepped back to look more closely at each other. Though Robert’s face showed
a few more laugh lines, Stephen didn’t doubt women fell at his feet—and into his bed—with the same regularity.

“
Sir
Robert now,” the king said. “After twenty years, our friend has given up the guise of traveling musician. He has returned
to claim his rightful place as a nobleman of Normandy.”

“You are full of surprises,” Stephen said, laughing.

Robert grinned back. “How it would grieve my uncle to know I’ve inherited his estates! I went into hiding because he was determined
to have me murdered.” Robert leaned close to Stephen and whispered, “His second wife favored me a bit too much.”

“Despite his change in circumstances,” the king said, “Robert has agreed to continue his service to me.”

Steven knew what that “service” was. As a troubadour, Robert traveled widely and was welcomed everywhere. That had made him
a useful spy in the years when England was roiled in rebellion and King Henry was yet Prince Harry.

“I cannot tell you how many evenings the family spent speculating about who you truly were,” Stephen said.

Robert’s eyes crinkled with good humor. “We can speak more of that another time. Now we must discuss the king’s plans for
you. We shall be working together, my friend.”

When the king dismissed Stephen and signaled for him to remain, Robert felt no sense of alarm, no foreboding. Though they
were very different men, their relationship was one of long-standing and mutual respect.

“Order and good government will not be enough to bind Normandy to England,” Harry began. “We must have marriage alliances
among the nobility, as well.”

Apprehension crept up Robert’s spine. Marriage alliances? Could the king mean—good God, the saints protect him!

“I received a letter today from my uncle, Bishop Beaufort, regarding one such young lady. If the weather holds, she could
arrive any day.”

A drop of sweat trickled down Robert’s back. “A young lady, sire? How young?” Please God, not some young innocent. He was
years and years too old for that.

“She is a widow of two and twenty.”

Better than fifteen or sixteen. But only slightly. He must think of an excuse, but what? Blast it, if he were yet just a troubadour,
the king would never ask this of him.

“I want your advice,” Harry said, touching the points of his steepled fingers to his chin. “Which of the French noblemen who
have pledged loyalty to me should I bind more closely through a marriage alliance?”

Praise God!
Relief coursed through Robert’s body. He hoped it did not show in his face.

“The only city that lies between my army and Paris is Rouen,” the king said. “I want a man with influence in that city. A
man who might convince them it is in their interest to surrender quickly.”

Robert sucked in a breath to steady himself and set his mind to the king’s question.

“Philippe de Roche,” he said, glad the answer was so easy. “He is a powerful man in Rouen. And, as a member of the Burgundy
faction, he is allied with us for the time being. From what I hear, his only true loyalty is to himself.”

“Then he is no different from most of these French nobles,” the king said, disapproval heavy in his voice.

“De Roche will not wish to bind himself to an English lady,” Robert said, “until he is certain which way the wind blows.”

“Since most of his lands are under our control, he will agree to the marriage,” the king said with a smile. “But will it keep
him loyal?”

Robert shrugged. “It will, at least, preclude him from making a marriage alliance unfavorable to us.”

“I have reason to hope for more,” the king said. “My uncle reports that this particular lady is blessed with both a strong
will and great beauty.”

Robert had no interest in the young widow’s attributes.