“Such a tired lamb! You gave me quite a turn, you did, falling fast asleep in the tub.”
“You scrubbed the blood from my fingers,” Isobel said, remembering.
She was so grateful she could have kissed the woman. For two days, every time she looked down at her hands on the reins, she saw de Roche’s blood crusted under her nails. She couldn’t get it off, washing in the dark with no soap.
How could Stephen and the king speak to her of marriage when she still had de Roche’s blood on her boots and leggings and matted in her hair?
“I would have let you rest longer,” the maid said, “but your brother has come to take you to the king.”
“To the king?” It felt as if she had just left him.
She closed her eyes. Damn that old fool Hume! If he’d not been taken in by Bartholomew Graham’s lies, none of this would have happened. She would never have met de Roche, she would not have had to kill anyone, and she would not have bruises on her throat. She would be living peacefully in Northumberland, running her household.
What would be her fate now? That a marriage alliance had failed to ensure de Roche’s loyalty would not deter the king from trying again. Which French nobleman did King Henry wish to bind to him now?
Or would it be Stephen? Could he convince the king? If he did, what would she do?
She would agree. Of course, she would.
How long would it be before he broke her heart? A few weeks? Six months? A year? Regardless, she would rather be unhappy with him than be with another man. If God were kind, she would have children to comfort her.
An hour later, she entered the Exchequer hall. Her heart dropped to her feet when she saw that Stephen was not there.
She stood before the king, once again waiting to hear her fate. Geoffrey and Robert stood on either side of her.
Where was Stephen? If he wished to claim her, surely he would be here. Perhaps he had already spoken to the king, and it was all settled.
“I hope you have recovered sufficiently to discuss your future,” the king said, kindly enough.
Isobel flushed, recalling how she had flung herself at his feet, begging. She as much as told the king he owed her a debt of service—and how he should repay it. She never would have done it if she had not been utterly exhausted.
“I leave Caen at dawn and want to settle this matter before I leave,” the king said, unrolling a parchment in his hands.
She turned her head to see if Stephen had come in.
“I have a letter from my uncle, Bishop Beaufort.”
Bishop Beaufort! Had he not caused her enough grief?
“He spoke to your father about increasing your dowry.”
Why? What were they planning now? How many times must she suffer the choices of men who held power over her? She was sick to death of the decisions they made on her behalf.
“The bishop prevailed upon your father to increase your dowry to a handsome sum.”
She could imagine Bishop Beaufort “prevailing upon” her recalcitrant father. If she were not so tense, she might be amused.
“Your Highness, if I may?” her brother said. When the king nodded, Geoffrey said, “Our father will increase her dowry further when he learns I am joining the Cistercian order.”
Isobel tried to smile at her brother. Though it was an unlikely choice for an only son, she was happy for him.
“I admire the Cistercians’ devotion to poverty, prayer, and arduous labor,” the king said. “Your father should be proud.”
Ha! The king might hear their father’s shouts all the way from Northumberland when he heard the news.
“ ’Tis a shame the dowry won’t be needed now,” the king said, shaking his head. “I am releasing you from your promise to marry a man of my choosing.”
“Your Highness?” Isobel was too stunned to be sure she heard him correctly.
