Knight of Pleasure (5 page)

“Perhaps you met her in your travels?” the king said. “Her name is Lady Isobel Hume—her father is Sir Edward Dobson.”

The blood drained from Robert’s head so rapidly he swayed on his feet. Margaret’s daughter. The king was speaking of Margaret’s
daughter. Coming here. To Caen.

“ ’Tis many years since I traveled to the north,” Robert said, struggling to keep his features smooth. “But I believe my troupe
did perform for her father’s household once or twice.”

Pretty little Isobel, so like her mother. She sat at his feet for hours listening to him sing ballads and recite tales. Her
favorites were those of King Arthur.

“She was a lovely child,” he said and regretted the wistful tone that crept into his voice.

“Well, she is no child now,” the king snapped. “I do not know what I shall do with her until the marriage can be arranged.
There are no English noblewomen here into whose care I may put her. She has a brother with Gloucester’s army, but it will
take time to bring him to Caen.”

“Put her into my care until the brother comes.” The words were out of Robert’s mouth before he thought them.

“A young lady? In your care? Do you take me for a fool!”

“Believe me, I do not want this burden,” Robert said, putting his hands up. “If you had anyone else, I would not own up to
my obligation.”

“Obligation?” the king demanded. “What obligation?”

Obligations. Consequences. What lad of sixteen considers these when he believes himself in love? That summer in Flanders,
he and Margaret sneaked off every chance they got.

“We are distant relation, through our families in Flanders,” Robert said, knowing bits of truth always improve a falsehood.
“If you doubt it, ask Lady Hume if she has a Flemish grandmother.”

The king narrowed his eyes at Robert, considering.

“She is a widow, not a young girl,” Robert reminded him. “She does not need a guardian.”

“Still, I must do something with her,” the king grumbled.

“I give you my pledge, the lady will be safe with me.”

The king nodded; Harry always did like a pledge.

“But you shall watch over her,” the king said, shaking his finger in Robert’s face, “as a father watches over a daughter.”

Robert’s throat tightened. God knew, he was late to the task. And wholly unsuited.

But he would do his best.

November 1417

S
tephen strode through the bailey yard, his thoughts sour after spending an entire morning resolving a dispute between two
whining merchants. Praise God, he had the afternoon free to train with William and Jamie. He needed to wield a sword until
his muscles ached and the sweat poured from his skin.

This evening, like all his evenings now, belonged to Robert. God help him, his king valued him for the secrets he could wheedle
out of people. What honor was there in that?

The king should be pleased to learn Stephen was employing his “special talents.” So far, there was no shortage of local men
who wished to drink with him or women who wished to bed him.

“Stephen!”

He did not see Marie de Lisieux until he had to grab her to keep from knocking her to the ground. God in heaven, the woman
was always underfoot. She pursued him with a persistence that had long since ceased to be flattering.

Marie pressed her hand to her ample bosom. “You must come sit with me while I recover.”

The spark in her eyes told him sitting was not what the lady had in mind. Keeping her marriage vows was just the beginning
of the scruples the voluptuous Marie de Lisieux did not have. The woman was trouble. But who was he to deny the king’s command
to “insinuate” himself with the local nobility?

“I cannot now.” Over her shoulder, he saw William and Jamie coming across the bailey yard. Robert was with them.

Marie tugged on his arm. “Then when?”

“Saturday,” he said and waved to the others.

“But that is days away!”

Her perfume was so strong it made his eyes water. Odd he never noticed before.

“Tonight,” she insisted. “You must come to me tonight.”

“Late,” he said, prying her fingers from his tunic. He gave her a wink and ran off to join the others.

His mood lifted as the four of them walked in the direction of the Old Palace. Between it and the Exchequer was an open space
where they usually practiced.

“I am pleased you are joining us,” he said, clamping his hand on Robert’s shoulder. “After all you’ve done for me, I shall
make it my personal duty to keep you in fighting shape.”

Robert laughed. “I should enjoy the challenge, but I cannot today. I’ve come to ask a favor.”

Stephen threw him a black look. “What is it?”

“A noblewoman from Northumberland arrived by ship this morning,” Robert said, turning to address William and Jamie, as well.
“The king has put her in my care. Since she is here without friend or family, it would be a kindness if you would talk with
her.”

The back of Stephen’s neck prickled. He could think of only one explanation for the arrival of a lone English lady in Caen.

“If this is some foolish girl my mother and Catherine have sent, I will send her back. No matter the consequences.” His suspicion
shifted quickly to outrage. “Robert, how could you be party to this scheme of theirs?”

“Afore God, I am innocent!” Robert said, putting his hand over his heart and laughing. “This lady is here to make a political
marriage. Believe me, I shall have to answer to the king if anything more than friendly talk occurs between you.”

Stephen’s good humor returned at once. “What was the king thinking, putting her into your care?”

“As it happens, her mother is a distant cousin of mine.”

“The king believed that?” Stephen said, grinning. “What of her betrothed? Surely the man does not know you, to allow it.”

“The lady is safe in my hands,” Robert said. “As for the man, he is in Rouen—and has yet to learn of his impending betrothal.”

Isobel tried to ignore her maid’s fidgeting as she watched for Sir Robert. From their bench in front of the Old Palace, she
could see most of the buildings enclosed within the castle’s outer walls. The Exchequer Hall, where Sir Robert said King Henry
held court, was to her right. If she leaned forward and looked the other way, she could see past the curtain wall of the keep
all the way to the eastern gate, Porte des Champs.

Soldiers were everywhere she looked.

“There are so many men here,” her maid said. “Are we safe, m’lady?” The woman’s eyes flitted from side to side, as though
she expected to be attacked at any moment.

“Hush!” Isobel was exasperated with the woman’s endless questions. Since she had no servants of her own now, she was forced
to bring this silly woman from her father’s household. “The men guarding us wear the king’s livery. We could not be safer.”

The unease that gnawed at her stomach had nothing to do with finding herself in the midst of hundreds of armed men. All her
anxiety centered on one man.

“But where is your intended?” the maid asked. “When will he come for you?”

“You know very well Sir Robert has gone to ask for news of him.” So long as her Frenchman was not here, she did not care where
he was.
Please, God, let him never come.

“Have you ever seen a man so handsome?”

Isobel knew the maid was no longer speaking of her intended, but of Sir Robert. The woman was so agog when he met them at
the ship that Isobel had to give her a firm shove to get her down the ship’s ramp.

“He is more beautiful than handsome,” Isobel said, more to herself than the maid. “Like the angel Gabriel.”

“Just so, m’lady!”

He’d been kind as an angel, too. After making sure she was comfortably settled into a chamber in the keep, he devoted the
rest of his morning to walking her about the castle grounds.

’Twas odd, though. Bits of song kept coming into her head when he spoke. As she puzzled over it, she gazed at the lovely chapel
dedicated to Saint George that stood midway between her bench and the main gate, Porte Saint-Pierre.

Her jaw dropped when she saw Robert striding toward her with three other men. Like the waters of the Red Sea, the crowds of
soldiers parted before them, leaving her with a clear view. The four tall, formidable, well-built men looked as if they stepped
out of the magical tales of her childhood.

One of them was of an age with Sir Robert and looked precisely as she always imagined King Arthur: dark golden, commanding,
grave. Next to him was a dark-haired youth of perhaps sixteen.

She shifted her gaze to the last man, who was talking with great animation. Judging from how the others turned their heads
to listen, it was a good story he was telling. All four men were handsome, but there was something about this one that held
her attention.

That rich auburn hair, which he wore to his shoulders, must be the envy of every woman who saw it. She liked his long, lithe
frame and the way he walked with an easy, catlike grace despite the wild gestures he was making.

“M’lady, could one of these fine men be your intended?”

Isobel turned to stare at her maid. Could it be true? Could he have arrived already? Alarm coursed through her limbs and settled
in a knot in her belly.

“One of them is the right age, aye?” the maid persisted.

Sir Robert said her Frenchman was but a few years older than she.

When she turned back to look at the men again, her throat closed in panic. They were nearly upon her!

“See, m’lady, the one on the end with the lovely hair—”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the maid’s arm rising and grabbed it before the woman could point.

She was not ready to meet him, she was not, she was not. She busied herself brushing her gown, trying desperately to calm
herself.

With a burst of male laughter, the men surrounded her.

Robert greeted her with a warm smile and helped her to her feet. Tilting his head toward the man who looked like King Arthur,
he said, “Lady Hume, let me present Lord William FitzAlan.”

FitzAlan looked as though he slayed dragons for breakfast. But when he greeted her, she saw kindness in his eyes.

“And this is FitzAlan’s son, Jamie Rayburn,” Robert said, turning to the dark-haired youth.

Young Jamie Rayburn seemed unable to keep his eyes from running over her, head to foot, despite the fact that it caused him
to blush furiously.

She had no time to wonder how it might be that father and son had different family names before the third man eased the youth
aside. All else faded away as she looked into the face of the man she was to marry.

Could it be true? Could this man with the laughing eyes be her new husband?

She’d prayed for a man who did not disgust her. Never did she dare hope for this. The man was so handsome he took her breath
away. Every feature was pleasing: the black slash eyebrows; the hard planes of cheek and jaw; the strong, straight nose; the
wide, mobile mouth.

But his eyes would always be her favorite part. Amazing how the color almost matched his hair—just a few shades darker and
more deep brown than chestnut.

And his voice. So melodic.

As she listened to it, she imagined a row of pretty children with the warm brown eyes of puppies.

And almost failed to catch his words.

“… a delight to meet you. I am Sir Stephen Carleton.”

She blinked at him. “But that is an English name.”

“Aye, ’tis,” he said with a grin that drew her gaze to his even white teeth. “I am from Northumberland, just as you are.”

Northumberland? But… good heavens! She felt herself blush to her roots, mortified by her mistake. What must the man think?

“I’ve spent little time in Northumberland since I was twelve,” Carleton continued, smooth as silk. “Still, I expect we have
some acquaintances in common.”

She caught the devilish twinkle in his eyes, and her humiliation was complete. Did he guess she mistook him for her Frenchman?
Or was he merely amused by her wide-open stare?

What had come over her? She thought she gave up those childish dreams of Knights of the Round Table a long, long time ago.

In sooth, this Stephen Carleton was as handsome as any of the knights of legend. She was quite sure, however, none of the
Camelot knights had the mischief she saw in the eyes of the man grinning down at her.

Unbidden, the image of Bartholomew Graham flitted across her mind. A reminder that good looks and easy charm could hide a
very black heart.