Anyone who saw the fire in King Henry’s eyes would be foolish not to believe he would do it.
“Philippe de Roche will save the people of Rouen much suffering if he can persuade them to avoid a siege,” he said. “But for de Roche to play his part, he must be kept loyal.”
She agreed to this marriage as a lesser of evils. Only now did she understand the responsibility that came with her choice.
“Your charge is to bind him to us,” the king said, pointing his forefinger at her. “Do not allow de Roche to misjudge where his interest lies.”
“I will do my best, sire,” she said, though she despaired of knowing how she would accomplish it.
“Still, he may work against us,” the king said. “If you discover he does, I must learn of it at once.”
Just what did he expect of her? Isobel ran her tongue over her dry lips again. “Do you mean, sire, I should attempt to learn his true loyalty before the wedding?”
“If de Roche changes his allegiance, you shall send word to me,” the king said, his eyes boring into her. “Whether it is before or after your marriage.”
Chapter Seven
From the corner of her eye, Isobel watched Stephen Carleton laugh and talk with English knights, common soldiers, and local nobles as he wove his way through the crowded hall. People turned to him like iron filings to a lodestone as he passed.
He sidestepped the voluptuous Madame de Lisieux; the woman tracked him like a hound. In another moment, he was tête-à-tête in a corner with another fair-haired woman. From their frequent bursts of laughter, it was plain the two enjoyed each other’s company and knew each other well. Very well, indeed.
“Who is that?” she whispered to Robert.
Robert turned to follow her line of vision. “Who? The woman next to Stephen Carleton?”
“That is the one.” Isobel took a drink of her wine. “She is quite beautiful.” In sooth, the woman was exquisite.
Robert took a handful of sugared nuts from the bowl on the table. “Aye, Claudette is as lovely as her famous cousin.”
“She has a famous cousin?”
“Odette de Champdivers, mistress of the king of France.”
Isobel shook her head. “I have not heard of her.”
“You know King Charles is mad?” he said, eyes twinkling. “Well, Odette has been his mistress for twenty years without his knowing it.”
She laughed; she could listen to Robert spin tales all night.
“Odette was first the mistress of the king’s brother, Louis d’Orléans. When the queen took the dashing Orléans as her lover, the two of them sent Odette to the king’s bed in her stead—dressed in the queen’s clothes.”
“The king was deceived?”
“Every night for twenty years!” Robert shook his head. “They say he’s never been the wiser, and no one will risk the queen’s wrath by telling him.”
“And Claudette?” Isobel asked, bringing the conversation back to the woman whose hand rested on Carleton’s arm.
“Claudette is more clever than her cousin. She’s saved her money and kept her independence.” Robert gave Isobel a rueful smile. “But I forget myself, speaking so freely with you.”
“I am glad you feel you can,” she said. “I do not like being treated as a child.”
“Then I will tell you,” Robert said, turning his gaze to Carleton, “a man may enjoy a courtesan’s company in public without also employing her services in private.”
How did Robert always guess what she was thinking?
“Still,” he said, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth, “Stephen is not a man afraid to play with fire.”
Playing with fire. Heaven help her. Each time she saw him, the episode in the storeroom came back to her. She could almost feel his mouth on hers again, his body pressed against her, his hands…
