“Stephen,” François called out softly into the darkness. When Stephen joined him at the gate, François said, “ ’Tis safe. He’s drunk as a bishop. He’ll not wake ’til morning.”
“Good work.” Stephen squeezed François’s shoulder as he slipped through the gate. “Let us hurry.”
“The door into the house from the stable yard is not locked,” François said in a hushed voice as they trotted across the yard. “But Isobel’s rooms are at the top of the house. I can show you from the courtyard.”
Stephen touched the rope wound around his waist. It would be safest to bring her down from the window; the less time the two of them spent walking through the house, the better.
“No talking inside,” Stephen warned when they reached the door. “As soon as you show me which window is hers, leave for the city gate.”
Stephen barely heard the soft click and swish of the door. François had a talent for this. Once inside, François led Stephen down a short corridor and around a corner. He stopped in front of a large window and eased a shutter open to reveal a square courtyard of perhaps fifteen feet across. An overgrown tree filled the small space.
He heard a shout from the lit window above as something fell crashing through the tree.
“Get out, now!” he said to François. When the boy did not move, Stephen took hold of the back of his cloak and turned him around. “Go!” he said, giving François a shove in his back.
Dear God, those were Isobel’s screams echoing off the walls of the courtyard!
Stephen spun around. He was halfway out the window before he saw the man standing in the shadows. Another man was leaning out of the window above, bellowing his head off. It was all Stephen could do to make himself wait.
When the man in the courtyard pulled Isobel roughly to her feet, Stephen clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached. He decided he would kill this man before he left the house tonight.
“Send the servants back to bed and wait there,” the man called up. “I shall bring you what fell out of the window.”
Good. Better to have the servants abed when he and Isobel made their escape.
When the man in the window turned his head to bark orders at someone behind him, Stephen recognized de Roche’s ridiculous pointed goatee. But who was the man in the courtyard? Not a servant. The voice was cultured, used to command. He thought he’d heard it before, but where?
The man was experienced; he did not lose patience and move too soon. Instead, the devil’s spawn waited until the rooms went dark and the voices stilled before dragging Isobel into the house. At least Isobel was not badly injured from the fall. She was scratching and kicking like a madwoman.
What a woman! Jumping out the window!
She must have learned about de Roche’s wife.
Stephen followed them up two sets of stairs. With Isobel struggling at every step, the man did not once look behind him. At the top, the man kicked a door open and carried Isobel inside.
The door closed behind them. Damn.
Stephen padded up the last steps and pressed his ear to the door. The two men were talking. He could not make out the words, but something in their tone had the hair on the back of his neck standing up.
Stephen drew his sword from its scabbard. Though de Roche was a skilled swordsman, he was not as good as he thought he was. His arrogance would lead him to make a mistake.
The other man worried Stephen more. If he had a choice, Stephen would take him first. Having made his plan, such as it was, Stephen eased the door open with his boot.
Nothing happened. He nudged it a few inches wider. Now he could see the room—a small solar—was empty. The voices were coming from the adjoining room.
Stephen stepped lightly across the room and pressed himself against the wall next to the open door. He could hear more clearly now. De Roche was saying something about an attack on an abbey. An abbey? Could de Roche—
As the other man spoke, Stephen’s speculations came to a jarring halt. His words turned Stephen’s blood to ice.
“We shall have to kill her, of course.”
Stephen stormed through the door.
In that first instant, he saw where each person in the room stood in relation to him and to each other. Isobel was farthest away, her back to the bed. Though her face was scratched, the fire in her eyes told him she had her wits about her. Thank God. De Roche was two steps from Isobel.
Fortune placed the other man closest to Stephen. A black-haired man.
“Stephen,” Isobel called out, “he is the one who attacked the abbey.”
