Rivals for the Crown (38 page)

Isabel felt a rage unlike anything she'd ever felt. "The man is a monster! Their only crime was protecting me!"

"He wants to know where you are, Isabel. He says he will come back tonight. When he returns, it will get worse."

She drew in a shuddering breath, then made her decision. "They must leave! They need to escape his clutches. Tell them I am so sorry for having brought this on their heads after all their kindnesses. They must go!"

"Yes. They are planning to do just that. We have already made plans. They want you to come with them."

"No. I cannot endanger them further. Tell them to go without

me."

"What will you do?"

"What I must. Do not lock the door. And, Gilbert, leave your knife."

Staring into the distance, she waited until his footsteps faded, then picked up the knife Gilbert had left on the floor and slid it under her garter.

She crept down the stairs, stopping every few feet to listen, but there was no sound from any of the rooms. She continued, reaching the ground floor, standing in the dim light that spilled from the inn next door. She leaned against the door that linked the two buildings. All was silent.

The door to the outside creaked when she opened it and she froze, fearing discovery. But no one cried out, no soldiers leapt at her out of the dark, and she slipped outside and up the hill. She shrank against the wall of the inn, leaning forward to look into the large window that faced the street. Then farther, until she could see shapes. The glass, thick and mottled, did not allow her a clear view, but she could make out Rachel sitting alone on the floor in the center of the room, and there, by the hallway to the kitchens, two shapes on the floor. Soldiers walked across the floor, talking cheerfully and lifting cups of ale.

There was no sign of Langton.

She lifted her skirts and hurried up the hill.

She paused outside the gates, trying to find the courage to do what she must. For a while, as long as it lasted, she must become another person, stronger, fiercer. She must not waver from her goal. She went over her plan again. It was madness.

The gates were open but manned, the causeway full of men who hurried to and fro. Overhead torches lit the scene, their flames dancing in the light wind, casting shadows across the stones of the castle and on the yard below. She said a prayer, then another, then squared her shoulders and walked forward. The guards gave her a quizzical look as she neared them.

"I am Isabel de Burke. Tell my lord Bishop Langton that I await."

A few moments later she was shown inside, through the portcullis and into the yard. The men who passed her threw curious glances her way, but no one spoke to her. She was jostled by two whores, who laughed at her, their breath foul with drink. They continued on to the group of soldiers standing on the far side of the yard, distracting them with simpering looks and a vast display of cleavage.

Isabel closed her eyes, saying a prayer that her courage wouldn't fail her.

"I had to see it for myself."

It was Alis's voice. With a feeling of inevitability, Isabel opened her eyes.

Alis leaned from a balcony above, her hair tousled, as though she had just risen from bed, her low-cut bodice as revealing as the whores'. She held a crystal glass in her hand and sipped from it, then smiled down at Isabel. "It is you. I knew you were alive."

Isabel smiled in return. "How could I have not known you would be here?"

Langton hurried up behind Alis, clutching his open robe to himself. He peered over her shoulder at Isabel, then grunted. "Bring her up," he said.

Langton's apartments faced the river below. Isabel followed the guard up the narrow and
spiralled
stairs. She could hear music from the Great Hall, and laughter floating up the stairwell. The king was entertaining his guests, and apparently most in the castle were with him. They passed the balcony from which Langton and Alis had leaned, then down a long corridor lit by torches held in sconces on the walls. It was quiet here, with no one about and all the doors closed. The guard knocked on a wide door.

"Come in," Langton said.

The guard opened the door. Isabel lifted her chin and stepped inside.

It was a large room, comfortably furnished, one end dominated by a large stone fireplace, carved with biblical scenes, in which a fire crackled. There were two windows, one open slightly to the night air. The breeze rippled the flames of the candles that stood on the low table before the fireplace and the higher one next to the tall bed. The bed itself was of carved oak, the pillars of its canopy stout and roped, the canopy above carved with Langton's crest.

Langton stood near the closed window, his face in shadow, his form, in dark clothing, blending into the heavy draperies behind him.

"Leave us."

The guard bowed and retreated. The door closed with a solid thud. And then there was silence. She stared at him, but she could not see his face.

"A bold move, Isabel." His voice was calm.

She did not answer.

"An unexpected treat, to have you come to me. I am glad the Angenhoffs sent you."

"They did not."

"Oh, come, Isabel. I was so persuasive. I know they were eager to assist me in my search."

"They do not know I am here."

"And pigs fly."

"What do you want with me?"

His laugh was amused, but cold. "Is it not obvious? I was concerned when you left London so suddenly. That was not wise, to tell the world that you were dead. Your mother tells me it was your idea, and that she begged you to come to your senses. Your grandmother played her part well. I felt terrible, having my men tear her house apart. We found nothing, of course. And no, she was not harmed. You may think me one, but I am not a monster. The

captain of a boat that runs the coast remembered you and the Scotsmen. And here we are."

He stepped forward into the light. His robe had been hastily donned. It was still askew, and not properly fastened, revealing dark hair below his throat. He crossed the room and locked the door, pocketing the key.

"Why did you come here, Isabel?"

"I heard you were looking for me."

"Ah, your friend Rachel told you."

"No. My benefactor."

His eyebrows raised. "Your benefactor? Jacob? The old devil! And all this time I thought it was the daughter you were fond of."

"Not Jacob."

"Then?" He moved to a table, pouring wine into two crystal glasses. "Tell me more about your mysterious benefactor."

"He is not mysterious. I was at the inn. He visited and offered me...a different position."

"A different position." He stood before the couch before the fire. His robe fell open, giving her a glimpse of his rounded stomach, matted with dark hair. "Yes?"

"I am under his protection."

"Of course you are. Who is this man? And do not tell me it's de Boyer. I know he cannot afford a mistress. His wife takes all the coin he has."

"No. Not de Boyer."

"Then the Scotsman. MacGannon."

"No. He is French. He visits Berwick on business. He is a wine merchant."

"And you service him here?"

"Yes."

"His name?"

She pulled a name out of the air. "Gaston de Vezelay."

Langton moved closer and handed her the wine. "And all this time I thought you a virgin. I am pleased you are not. It is tedious, deflowering."

She smiled then and took the wine, draining it. She would need its strength.

He laughed and took the glass from her. "More, Isabel? Shall we become quite debauched?"

"I believe you are already."

He laughed again and poured the wine. "I am delighted that we can agree on something. Now tell me the truth. Why are you here?" He handed her the wine.

"Why do you look for me here?"

"We had unfinished business."

"What is left to say?"

"I offered you my services and you ran. I can make it all go away, Isabel. The accusations against you can dissolve." He snapped his fingers. "Like this. The king will be told it was all a dreadful mistake. You will not have to hide in a sewer like Berwick. You will be able to return to London again with no fear."

"In return for?"

"You. Your body. When I want it. How I want it."

"And if I refuse?"

"I cross the room and call the guard. Do you know what a traitor's death is?"

"Yes.

"I would hate to have to watch you suffer." He pushed his robe open farther and rubbed his hand down his chest, then lower. And laughed. "What does de Vezelay like you to do?"

"The usual things."

"Does he like you to touch him?" His hand moved up, then down. "Does he ask you to put your lips around him?"

She felt faint. "Yes," she whispered.

"And do you?"

"Yes."

"Come here, Isabel." He put his wineglass on the table.

She moved to stand stiffly before him. He took the glass from her and placed it next to his, then, keeping one hand still in his robe, he reached for her with the other, his hand circling her neck, drawing her mouth to his.

"Kiss me, Isabel. Prove you are not dissembling."

She leaned closer, pressing her lips against his. He tasted of wine and garlic, and when his tongue probed her she thought she would gag. He pulled back.

"You are not wholehearted in this. You tremble, Isabel. Do you fear me?"

"Yes," she whispered.

She saw the flash of pleasure in his eyes and felt a thrill of triumph. She could do this. She would do this.

"I can be most generous. To those who please me."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Put your hand here."

He guided her hand into his robe, to wrap her fingers around his penis. He was very hard, his erection jutting forward. He shrugged out of his robe and stood naked before her. His body was as she'd thought—formless. His shoulders and his waist were the same width. His chest and stomach were covered with thick dark hair, and lower.. .He smiled.

"Yes. You excite me. You have from the first moment I saw you. I wanted you. I still do. Will you be wise, Isabel? Or will this pretty neck be stretched on the gallows?"

She was silent.

"Look at your hand on me. Look!"

She did.

"Now move your hand. Slowly. Up. Down. Your Frenchman has not taught you much, has he? This is only the beginning. Does he like you to do this?"

"Yes."

"And what else? Does he like you to move faster? Like this?" He guided her hand. "Yes. Tighter. Again. Again." His smile was sly. "I don't believe you are practiced at this. But you will learn. Now let me go. I am not ready for this to be over. Take off your clothing."

"I..."

"Shall I cross the room and call the guard?"

"No."

"Then?"

She removed the long tunic she wore, then turned, as though she were being modest, fumbling on her leg for her garter. She stepped out of her shoes, rolled down her stockings, and dropped them on the floor. He reached from behind and caressed her breast through the material.

She took a shuddering breath. She could not do it. He pressed against her, his erection firm through the cloth that covered her.

"We will do this as well. But not yet. Here, let me help you.

She dropped the garter from her leg, Gilbert's knife with it, and put her foot atop it, then her long tunic. Dear God. But no, she could not ask His help in this.

Langton lifted her undertunic over her head. She stood naked before him.

He studied her, tilting his head and turning her to face the light. "Yes. Yes. You are perfect." His smile was slow. "Do we have an agreement, Isabel? Your body for your life?"

She nodded, trembling. Dear God.

He ran a hand from her shoulder to her breast, lifting it, then along her waist, to rest between her legs. "Not yet," he said as though talking to himself. "Touch me again. Hold me."

She reached for him. "Do you want my lips on you?"

She felt his surge of blood under her hand and felt her own surge of power. This was what Alis knew, how to make a man do what she wanted. She thought of Alis with Langton. With Henry, then banished that vision from her mind. She would be Alis. She stroked the length of him. She needed him to believe her.

"Sit down." He pushed her roughly onto the couch, pushed her back against the cushions and leaned forward, his erection almost touching her. "Take it."

She wrapped her hand around his penis and squeezed.

"Take it in your mouth."

She licked her lips and opened her mouth. The tip of his penis pushed past her lips, but they were dry and she pulled back. He hit the side of her head.

"Take it!"

She did, letting him press into her, his sigh almost a moan. He pulled out, then thrust in again, and again she thought she would