With the slightest inclination of his head he said, “I seemed to have startled you, madam.”
He did not know her.
“I—I expected Lord de Roche,” she said.
His black eyes seemed to go through her. Panic closed her throat as she waited for him to recognize her. Then she remembered:
She wore her brother’s clothes that day at the abbey. He had no cause to guess the finely dressed lady before him was the
same person.
“My name is LeFevre,” he said.
She forced herself to offer her hand to the monk killer. When he touched his lips to it, she swallowed the bile that rose
in the back of her throat.
“And you, madam, are…?”
“Lady Hume,” she said. “Lord de Roche’s betrothed.”
His eyes widened. “Philippe’s betrothed?” He paused, as if expecting her to contradict him, then said, “I shall chastise Philippe
for not sharing his good news with me.”
She could not remain in his presence a moment longer.
Aware she was making an awkward departure, she gave him a stiff nod and turned back the way she had come. The courtyard would
not do now. She wanted a barred door between her and the black-haired man. With his eyes burning into her back, she fought
not to break into a run before she turned the corner.
She sat on her window seat, shaking and holding her arms across her belly until she was calm enough to think. LeFevre. LeFevre.
Where had she heard the name before?
Then it came to her. One day she overheard Robert and Stephen speaking in low voices about men associated with the Dauphin
and the Armagnacs. They mentioned several names before they noticed her and abruptly changed topics.
LeFevre had been one of the names.
So it was the Armagnacs who were behind the attack on FitzAlan and the abbey. What was she doing, sitting here? King Henry
was adamant about how important it was for him to have this information. Somehow she had to get to the Palais and tell Stephen
before he left the city.
She was reaching for her cloak when she heard angry voices echoing through the courtyard. One of the voices was de Roche’s.
Whoever was arguing with him could not be a servant, because both of them were shouting.
Damn him! She could not risk attempting to leave the house with de Roche just below. When the shouting faded, she stood on
her window seat and leaned out the window. Had they moved into another part of the house? Or were they simply speaking too
quietly for her to hear? She would have to take her chances.
No sooner did her feet hit the floor than the solar door banged open with a crash. De Roche filled her doorway.
“My Lord,” Isobel said, dipping her head. How would she get to the Palais with him barring her way?
De Roche stood glaring at her with hard, angry eyes. “I thought you would wish to know,” he said, his voice slow, taunting,
“Carleton has left the city.”
Though she tried to cover her reaction, she felt herself pale.
He has left me, he has left me, he has left me,
ran through her head like a chant. She wanted to sink to her knees and cover her face in her hands.
“I must say, Carleton looked rather grim during his visit to our fair city.” De Roche walked around the solar, picking up
things and setting them down again, as though what he said held little interest to him. “Still, I don’t believe it will take
him long to forget you.”
He made a tutting sound with his tongue. “No time at all. In fact, I’m told he looked considerably more cheerful when he rode
out the gates this afternoon. But then, he’d just spent an hour with the highest-priced courtesan in the city.” He gave a
loud sigh. “Sybille would cheer any man.”
A courtesan? Without thinking, she parroted the words Robert once told her: “A man may enjoy a courtesan’s company in public
without employing her services in private.”
Roche laughed aloud, appearing to be genuinely amused. “But he did ‘enjoy her company’ in private. The hour they spent together
was in his bedchamber at the Palais.”
“Since Sir Stephen is neither married nor betrothed,” she said through her teeth, “he is free to do as he pleases.”
De Roche laughed again. “You are mistaken if you think betrothal or marriage will cause a man to forgo other pleasures.”
A courtesan. Stephen went to a courtesan right after leaving her.
De Roche cupped her cheek, forcing her attention back to him. “My betrothal will not stop me from taking you.”
His words made no sense.
He ran his hands down her arms and encircled her wrists. “You look puzzled, Isobel.”
The heat in his eyes told her what he wanted from her. With Linnet safely away, she could try to put him off.
“The banns have not yet been read thrice,” she said.
He forced her back until her heels struck the wall. Holding her wrists against the wall on either side of her head, he leaned
down until his nose nearly touched hers.
“The banns? The banns?” She felt the moisture of his breath on her face as he spat the words out. “Did you believe I would
marry a woman so beneath me?”
He released her and spun away. “Me, a de Roche! I am blood relation to the greatest families of France! My wealth is ten times
that of your father’s.”
Isobel rubbed her wrists as he stormed up and down the room, ranting. She was good and truly frightened now.
“Marriage to you would bring me no titles, no land. A pittance of a dowry. And yet your king thought I should be grateful—”
He was so angry he choked on the word. “Grateful, because you are an
English
noblewoman.”
He stopped his pacing. A cold stillness settled over him that frightened her more than his ranting. As he started toward her,
a shiver ran up her spine.
“I shall make your father pay a ransom three times the paltry sum he offered as dowry,” he said, jabbing the point of his
forefinger against her chest. “And while I wait for him to pay it, I shall make you my whore.”
“But we are betrothed!” Her voice shook, despite her effort to keep it steady. “I cannot be your… your…”
“My English whore.”
Why was he talking ransom and saying such horrid things to her? “You know very well that if you take me to bed, I will be
your wife in the eyes of both the church and the law.”
“That would be true,” he said, speaking slowly, “if I did not already have a wife.”
“A wife? You have a wife?” She shook her head from side to side, unable to take it in. “You cannot. It is not possible.”
“I assure you, it is. I made a very advantageous match with a young lady whose family is close to the Dauphin. Since her father
was not entirely… supportive… of the marriage, we wed in secret shortly before I came to Caen.”
“Then why did you come to Caen?”
“What better way to persuade King Henry of my loyalty than to agree to a marriage alliance?” de Roche said with a shrug. “I
never intended to go through with it.”
She was too shocked to speak.
“Your friend Robert was no more anxious to settle the marriage contract than I, so it was easy to put Henry off.” He took
a deep breath and shook his head. “I needed but a few weeks more.”
“But you made a formal pledge to me,” she said. “Before witnesses. Before the king.”
“I admit Henry surprised me,” he said. “He cornered me before I had a chance to slip out of Caen. I had no choice but to go
through the sham betrothal.”
How could any man be so wholly lacking in honor? And she, what had she done?
“Is that not bigamy?” Was it? Was she guilty of the sin, as well? “And what of the other lady? I cannot think she or her family
will be pleased with the news of a second betrothal.”
“I went to a good deal of trouble to ensure they would not learn of it,” he said. “ ’Tis a shame you told my cousin.”
“Your cousin?”
“Aye, you met Thomás today, downstairs.” He shook his finger at her. “My cousin is a dangerous man. You should have stayed
in your rooms as I told you.”
“Thomás? You mean LeFevre? LeFevre is your cousin?” She sucked in her breath. Was Thomás the “T” in the letter? Had she warned
the king of the wrong man?
“So many questions, Isobel. Fortunately, it is as much in Thomás’s interest as mine to keep the secret.” He tilted his head
and said, “Still, he is quite angry with me. You see, it is his young half sister who is my wife.”
She was reeling from all the revelations. One thought rose above all the others clamoring in her head. If de Roche was married
and her betrothal false,
she was not bound to him.
Roche lifted her chin with his forefinger. “No matter what Thomás says, I shan’t give you up soon.”
She slapped his face, hard.
He regarded her with icy gray eyes as he touched the red mark she left on his cheek. “Your king has quaint notions of chivalry.
Since he told me he would send an envoy—and I could not yet risk offending him—I had to take care with you before.”
He took her wrists and held them in an iron grasp in one hand. Then, his expression cool, he swung his other arm and backhanded
her so violently that her ears rang.
“But now?” he said. “Now there is nothing to keep me from doing whatever I want with you.”
He kissed her hard, bruising her lips and grinding his hips against her. Still stunned from the slap, she did not fight him.
When he released her, she fell back against the wall. She focused on the hair’s breadth between them and pressed herself against
the wall.
“I shall not be able to return to you until late.” He rubbed the back of his fingers against her stinging cheek. “I suggest
you spend the time thinking of ways to please me.”
He gave her cheek a pinch that made her eyes sting before finally turning to go out the door. She heard the key scrape in
the lock as she sank to the floor.
How long did she lie there, clutching her knees and shaking so hard her teeth chattered? The room grew pitch-black, and still
she could not make herself get up.
How would she bear it? How could she live until her father sent the ransom? Would her father pay it? Or would he leave her
here forever? If she went home, it would be in shame—perhaps with de Roche’s child in her belly. The blemish on her virtue
would be no less for not being her fault.
She pounded her fists on the floor. How could she have mistaken de Roche’s stern nature for honorable character? His arrogance
for seriousness of purpose? The man was an oath breaker of the worst kind. And he was related by blood—and by marriage—to
that monk killer. She could hardly breathe thinking of LeFevre being under the same roof.
As she lay on the floor in the darkness, bits of what de Roche told her floated through her head. Then the bits began to fit
together.
Did de Roche know of his cousin’s attack on the abbey? God preserve her! Was de Roche the traitor who sent men to ambush FitzAlan
that day? Isobel covered her face and rocked her head back and forth against the floor. If he did it, then de Roche was the
vilest of men. As vile as his cousin.
A memory came to her of Linnet, eyes bright with anger, slapping a dagger in her hand. Isobel sat up. She would have de Roche’s
blood before she let him touch her again!
Her thoughts returned to LeFevre as she hurried to light the lamps. If Thomás LeFevre was the “T” who signed the letter, then
he was the cousin involved in the plot to murder the king, not Trémoille. Would Trémoille’s head be on a pike because of her
false accusation?
She stood stock still. If she had the wrong man, she could have everything else wrong, as well. She thought the murder was
planned for the knighting ceremony only because of Trémoille. Armagnacs, however, would choose some other occasion—and the
king would have no warning.
To have any hope of saving the king, she must first save herself. Somehow she had to escape from the house and steal a horse.
Once she got out of the house, she would figure out how to get to Caen.
After trying the locked door, she jumped onto the window seat and leaned out the window. She might just be able to reach the
top branches of the tree and climb down. If she did not break her neck, she could escape through the house from the courtyard.
She needed her weapons. She ran to her chest and tossed gowns and slippers to the floor until she found her daggers. Then,
through the layers at the very bottom, her fingers touched the scabbard of her sword.
When she leaned down to strap a dagger to her calf, she caught sight of dull brown in the midst of the colorful silks and
velvets heaped on the floor. Her brother’s tunic! She would be far less conspicuous traveling as a man than as a silk-clad
noblewoman.
She slid her sword into the narrow space between the mattress and the frame of her bed for safekeeping while she changed.
It was out of sight but within easy reach, should de Roche return before she was ready.
The blade of her dagger served as lady’s maid. One long stroke and she stood naked, the cold sweat of fear on her skin. Moving
swiftly, she donned her brother’s shirt, hose, tunic. Then she rammed her feet into her boots and hooked one dagger into her
belt. As she slid the other dagger into her boot, she heard voices outside the door.
There was no time! Heart in her throat, she dashed into the solar and leapt onto the window seat. She heard the muffled rattle
of keys as she heaved herself up onto the window ledge. She had one leg dangling outside before she realized she’d left her
sword behind. Damn, damn, damn!
She heard the soft
click, click
of the key turning the lock. Heart thundering, she swung her other leg over the ledge. She peered through the darkness, trying
desperately to judge the distance to the nearest branch. It looked much farther than before.
The door scraped against the floor.
“God’s blood!”
De Roche’s voice rang out behind her as she pushed off, flinging her arms out. She grasped at leaves and branches as she fell
crashing through the tree. For a moment she hung, suspended in the air, clinging by the fingers of one hand to a spindly branch.
It snapped, and she fell again.