Knight of Pleasure (31 page)

“And Isobel,” Stephen asked between clenched teeth, “does she rise late, as well?”

“Nay, the lady is always up early.”

He was a lost man, that he would take heart from so little. Though it seemed a lost cause now, he would go see her. He had
to.

“Tell me what you know of de Roche’s activities,” he said to change the subject.

“He’s always meeting in secret,” François said. “Sometimes with Armagnac sympathizers, other times with the Burgundy men.”

“What is he up to?” Stephen asked.

François shrugged again. “Lady Hume says we have no proof, but Linnet and I believe he is involved in some treachery against
King Henry.”

Isobel, married to a man like her father, whose oath of loyalty meant nothing. A man of no honor.

Isobel squeezed her eyes shut, grateful for the darkness of the carriage. Her hands would not stop shaking. Stephen. How it
tore her heart to see him! She was grateful de Roche dragged her from the Palais without introducing her to anyone.

“There was a rumor in Caen about you and this Carleton.” De Roche’s voice was low, menacing. “I did not believe it at the
time, but now I wonder.”

De Roche grabbed her chin and jerked her face toward him.

“Were you bedding him, while you played the virtuous lady with me? Were you, Isobel?”

“You insult me grievously and with no cause,” she said, forcing herself to speak in a steady voice. “I have gone to bed with
no man, save for Hume.”

He released her chin and sat back. “In sooth, I could not imagine you risking marriage to me for a dalliance with that wastrel.
I vow I do not know what women see in him.”

That he is ten times the man you are.

At least her anger kept her from weeping now.

De Roche did not speak again until the carriage came to a halt before the front gate of his house. “I must return to the Palais
for more discussions,” he said, sounding distracted.

Discussions over the city’s response to King Henry. Which side would de Roche argue? She hardly cared anymore, so long as
he was away from her. Her foot was on the carriage step when de Roche’s voice stopped her.

“Leave your door unbarred tonight.”

She took a candle from the sleepy-eyed servant who opened the front door and assured him she could find her way to her rooms
alone. As she walked past de Roche’s private parlor, she recalled talking with him there. She stopped in place. In her mind’s
eye, she saw the scattered papers on the table… de Roche returning to lock something in the drawer…

The locked drawer. If he had something to hide, it would be there. Perhaps she could find a clue as to his true allegiance.
She had a right to know something that affected her future so significantly.

Should she look now? De Roche was gone, the servants abed. Heart pounding, she stood still and listened. No sound of anyone
moving about. She eased the parlor door open and slipped inside.

She felt her way through the dark room to the window on the courtyard. Looking out, she saw no light in any of the rooms save
for her solar, where Linnet waited up for her.

It was safe, then, to light the lamp.

She lit the lamp on the table with her candle, then tried the drawer. Locked. As she looked about for something to use to
pry it open, a small vase on the corner of the table caught her eye. Would de Roche be so obvious? She turned the vase over
onto her hand. She smiled as the key fell onto her palm. The man was wholly lacking in subtlety.

The key made a satisfying click as she turned it in the lock. Aha! A single sheet of parchment lay in the drawer. When she
began to read it, her sense of satisfaction drained from her.

She sat down on the chair and smoothed the parchment with shaking hands to read it again.

Cousin,

All is arranged. We are assured the pious H will insist on hearing Mass on such an occasion. Thus the great H will die on
his knees. I shall be there to see it.

The complicity of others comes at a high cost. Have your share of the gold ready when I arrive.

T

Murder. That was what de Roche’s cousin intended for “H.” Who was this “H”? She sucked in her breath. King Henry, of course!
He was both “great” and “pious,” to be sure. And it was well known he had Masses said on every possible occasion.

And the cousin “T”? That could only be de Roche’s wily and powerful cousin Georges de la Trémoille.

But what was the “occasion” at which they intended to murder the king? She had a vague recollection of Robert complaining
of how dull Caen would be with the king spending all of Lent in fasting and prayer. But at Easter, there was to be a grand
event at which scores of men would be knighted.

Mass was a central part of the knighting ceremony.

A number of nobles who followed Burgundy—Henry’s supposed ally—would be invited to this important event. Trémoille could easily
attend.

A shudder ran through Isobel at the thought of King Henry murdered on his knees in church. The greatest king England had seen
in generations, struck down by a coward’s blade. If it was his fate to die young, such a king should fall in glory on the
battlefield.

She had to get word of this conspiracy to Stephen so he could warn the king. But how? Carefully, she put the letter back as
she found it, locked the drawer, and returned the key to the vase. She blew out the lamp and sat in the dark, trying to think
how she would do it.

Stephen had asked de Roche’s permission to visit her. If he did come, she could tell him then. She bit her lip in frustration—de
Roche would never allow her to meet with Stephen alone. If she could find François, she could send a message with him…

But François was already in danger. De Roche raged about finding the servant who told her of his secret meetings. She must
get both the twins to safety. But how?

She could think of no way to accomplish all that she must. A feeling of hopelessness took hold of her. She buried her head
in her arms on the table and let herself weep. For her king. For the twins. For the misery of her life. For Stephen. How she
longed to see him, to hear his laugh, to have his arms around her one more time.

How long had she been weeping when she heard voices?

She wiped her face on her sleeves and got to her feet. What had she been thinking, remaining in Roche’s parlor? As she started
toward the door, she heard the voices again. She went to the window and listened.

A scream reverberated through the courtyard. Isobel’s blood froze in her veins. Linnet.

Isobel was out the door and running for the stairs.
Please, God, let me not be too late.
De Roche was the only one who would enter Isobel’s rooms at night without permission.

The memory of Hume taking her the first time came to her sharp and clear as she raced up the stairs. There was nothing Isobel
would not do to save Linnet from that. Nothing she would not do to save the girl from being forced to lose her innocence to
a man she loathed.

Her heart was beating wildly in her chest as she reached the top of the stairs and flung open the solar door.

De Roche had Linnet pinned against the wall, holding her wrists over her head with one hand.

“Stop it, stop it!” Isobel screamed.

Linnet looked at Isobel with wide, terrified eyes. There was a studied casualness to de Roche’s expression as he turned to
her.

“A man must make do when he cannot find his bride.” He spoke with a cold calm that was more frightening than if he had raised
his voice. “Where were you, Isobel?”

“I… I was just in the courtyard,” Isobel stammered. “Let her go, Philippe. Please, I beg you, let her go.”

“Waiting for the banns, the formalities… it all seems… so… unnecessary to me,” de Roche said. “Does it not to you, my sweet?”

“Let Linnet go, and I will do whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want.” His white teeth gleamed in the candlelight. “That is just what I hoped you would say.”

The moment he released Linnet, the girl ran to Isobel and threw her arms around her waist.

De Roche took out a handkerchief and wiped the blood from the scratches on his cheek. “I should have the girl whipped.”

“No, Philippe.”

“You will find,” he said, wiping his hands on the handkerchief, “I can be as agreeable as you are.”

Isobel pushed Linnet’s hair back and kissed the girl’s forehead. “Go now.”

“I’ll not leave you,” Linnet whimpered against her.

“I shall be fine,” Isobel said in a firm voice. She led Linnet to the door and removed the girl’s arms from around her waist.
As she pushed Linnet out the door, she whispered, “Go to your brother and do not return until morning.”

The bar made a
thunk
as Isobel slammed it into place. She closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the door. Nothing could save her now.
She would be the wife of this dark and treacherous man until the day she died.

She would, however, get Linnet out of Rouen. She gathered herself and turned around to face her husband.

De Roche was already unfastening his belt.

W
hen the knocking continued, Isobel spun around.

“Linnet, stop this!” she called out loudly enough to be heard through the door. “You must go away now.”

A male voice answered, “Is Lord de Roche with you, m’lady?”

De Roche fastened his belt as he stomped to the door. After pushing Isobel aside, he slid the bar and jerked the door open.
An elderly servant stood on the other side, rubbing his bony hands together and blinking nervously.

“What is it?” de Roche demanded.

In a high, quavering voice, the servant said, “The visitor you were expecting on the morrow, m’lord… he… he has just arrived
and… and he is asking for you.”

Isobel was startled by the sudden change in de Roche. The angry impatience was gone, replaced by a palpable fear.

De Roche turned hard gray eyes on her. “Do not leave your rooms tonight.”

Without another word, he followed the servant out.

Isobel lay awake most the night, dreading the moment of de Roche’s return. She must have eventually drifted off, for she was
in a deep sleep when Linnet returned in the morning.

Linnet looked sharply about the rooms with narrowed eyes. “Where is he?”

“De Roche had a visitor shortly after you left,” Isobel said. “He did not return.”

The tightness in Linnet’s face eased. “François did not come back, either.”

“Come, I do not know how long we have,” Isobel said as she led Linnet to the window bench. “I must tell you my plan.”

As Isobel expected, Linnet objected to the plan at first.

“We must save the king,” Isobel told her. “I shall have your promise that you will play your part, for there is no other way.”

They spent the rest of the morning holding hands and talking quietly of small, unimportant things. Nothing could be gained
by talking more about the difficulties ahead.

Isobel prayed de Roche would not come to her bedchamber before Stephen’s visit. She did not want to have the memory of de
Roche touching her when she saw Stephen for the last time. But what if Stephen did not come today? What if he did not come
at all?

It was midafternoon when a servant came to tell Isobel that Sir Stephen Carleton was waiting in the hall to see her. De Roche,
too, would be told of Stephen’s arrival. If she could get to the parlor first, she might have a moment alone with Stephen.

“Hurry, please,” she urged Linnet. Isobel tried to help with the headdress, but her hands were shaking so violently that Linnet
slapped them away.

Isobel stared, unseeing, into the polished brass mirror as Linnet worked. She was so caught up in planning how to get the
news of the murder plot to Stephen that she’d given no thought as to why Stephen wanted to see her. What reason could he have?
Any news of Geoffrey he could have told her at the reception.

Could he be here to ask if she carried his child? She closed her eyes and swallowed. She’d been so sure Stephen understood
her silent message.

“If I do not get to speak with Stephen alone, Linnet, tell him”—she said it with her eyes still closed—“tell him… there is
no child.”

It hit her again. There was no child.

Isobel opened her eyes. In the mirror’s reflection, she saw her fist clutched against her chest and slowly lowered it to her
lap. Did she hope Stephen cared? That he would suffer as she was suffering? Nay, she would not wish this pain on him.

Linnet touched her shoulder. “I’ve finished.”

Isobel met Linnet’s eyes in the mirror. “Wait outside the door until I call you.”

Linnet nodded.

“Trust me.” Isobel stood and took the shawl Linnet held for her. Taking a deep breath, she hurried out the door.

She was within a few steps of the entrance to the hall when a voice behind her stopped her.

“I was just looking for you, my dear,” de Roche said, taking her arm in a firm grip. “We should welcome our guest together.”

She would not have even a moment alone with Stephen. Before she could prepare herself, de Roche led her in.