Knight of Pleasure Read online

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

  “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.

  Chapter Four

  November 1417

  Stephen 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.

  Stephen watched, amused, as Jamie gawked helplessly at the dark-haired beauty. His nephew appeared incapable of speech. Before the poor boy could embarrass himself further, Stephen stepped forward to introduce himself.

  He did not anticipate the effect those green eyes would have on him when the lady shifted her gaze to him. God in heaven, she was looking at him as though he were the answer to her prayers. It made him almost wish he were.

  The undisguised longing in her eyes sent a bolt of desire scorching through him. The look was gone so quickly he might have imagined it.

  Except he knew he had not.

  Hoping to strike the spark again, he gave her the smile that usually got him what he wanted. Cool as ice, she turned and took up conversation with Robert.

  He found himself behaving as badly as Jamie, taking her in from head to toe. The braids wound in gold mesh attached to her headdress were dark. She had pale skin and lovely delicate features that made her appear fragile. But there was something about the way she held herself that told him she did not consider herself weak or in need of protection.

  He followed the elegant line of her neck. Breathing hard, he worked his way down her slender, shapely form. He was grateful for the unseasonably warm weather that had led her to remove her cloak. Grateful, indeed.

  His slow, thorough perusal was interrupted by a hard jab to the ribs. When he sent a questioning sideways glance at the offender, William gave his head an almost imperceptible shake and mouthed, “Nay.”

  Stephen almost laughed aloud. Aye, there were many reasons he should not look at Lady Hume like that. That she was to make a political marriage for the king was reason enough for a wise man to keep his distance.

  He bit back a smile, considering the dangers. Catherine always said he was drawn to trouble like a bear to honey. She was right, of course.

  Chapter Five

  Try to remember,” Robert said as they walked down a dark street to yet another gathering, “you want to get the men drunk enough so they speak freely, while only pretending to be drunk yourself.”

  Stephen had sipped watered wine like a grandmother all night, but he did not bother to defend himself. He felt restless, despite the late hour.

  “Tell me about this Lady Isobel Hume.” He kept his voice casual, although he’d been thinking about her all day.

  “She is virtuous and unmarried,” Robert said. “Not your sort at all.”

  Stephen laughed. “Come, Robert, a man can be curious, can he not?”

  “So long as you do not attempt to satisfy your ‘curiosity’ with this particular lady.”

  Some undeserving Frenchman would have that pleasure. For some reason, that galled Stephen to no end.

  “Speaking of women,” Robert said. “By the saints, Stephen, can you not show some discretion in the women you bed?”

  This, just after he’d fended off their last host’s buxom and oh-so-willing daughter. “How can you, of all men, lecture me about women?”

  “Who better?” Robert said. “I do not suggest you be celibate, God forbid. Only do try to exercise better judgment.”

  “Did William ask you to speak with me about this?”

  Robert’s laugh rang out through the empty street. “William would sooner put you in chains as a
remedy than have me advise you about women!”

  Stephen sighed. “Not that it is your concern, but I am finished with Marie.” Of course, Marie did not know that yet.

  Marie. Good God, he’d forgotten their liaison tonight. Marie was not a woman easily deterred. When he failed to come to their meeting place, she would seek him out. Even go to his bedchamber—

  “St. Wilgefort’s beard!” He abandoned Robert in the middle of the dark street and took off running.

  Luckily, the men on duty at the gate were drinking companions of his. With a few ribald shouts, they waved him through. He raced across the endless expanse of bailey yard to the Old Palace. Breathing hard, he took the steps to the second floor two at a time and sprinted down the dimly lit corridor to the chamber he shared with Jamie.

  If he was too late, William would have his head, for sure.

  When he burst into the chamber, two heads popped up from the bed. Marie lay sprawled over Jamie, her gown pushed down below her breasts. But God was with him; the bedclothes were still between Marie and his nephew.

  Jamie bolted upright, sending Marie rolling sideways. With a dramatic sigh, Marie raised herself up on one arm and looked at Stephen. She did not cover herself.

  “He is a bit young for you, Marie,” Stephen said, keeping his tone light. “You must be twice his age.”

  A smile twitched at her lips. “I swear, Stephen,” she said, widening her eyes, “he gave every sign he was old enough.”

  He closed his eyes briefly. Would this night ever end? “Time to go, Marie.”

  She took her time squeezing her breasts back into her tight bodice—a process Jamie followed closely. When she slid down from the high bed, she made sure her gown rode up high on her thighs.

  Stephen picked up her cloak from the floor, draped it around her shoulders, and led her to the door.

  “The three of us?” she whispered close to his ear.

  He gave his head a firm shake. “How does your husband handle you?”