“Since Lady Hume’s father cannot be here to negotiate the marriage contract…”
At the sound of the king’s voice, Isobel dragged her gaze away from de Roche’s face.
“… that responsibility falls to her brother. Since he is young, however, I have asked Sir Robert to assist him.”
The king stood. “Now I have other matters to attend to.”
Despite the king’s unmistakable signal the interview was at an end, de Roche spoke again.
“My king, I am grateful for the opportunity to serve you. I do so out of deep concern for the welfare of the people of Rouen—and, indeed, all of Normandy. Neither French faction is capable of bringing us peace and prosperity. I praise God you have come to save us.”
“ ’Tis God’s will that I do,” the king said.
Heads bobbed as the king swept out of the hall.
Isobel cast a nervous glance at de Roche. Neither the king’s irritation nor meeting his future wife appeared to have ruffled him. A confident man, to be sure. A bit arrogant, perhaps.
His unequivocal profession of loyalty to King Henry relieved her. Though his speech lacked subtlety, he sounded sincere. She prayed he was.
Isobel took the arm de Roche held out to her. As they made their way down the length of the huge hall together, she listened to the rhythmic tapping of their feet on the stone floor. She was keenly aware that this was the first of many times she would walk at this man’s side.
How many times would she do this in her lifetime? A thousand? Ten thousand? How many times would she do it before de Roche did not feel a stranger to her?
How many times before Stephen did not cross her mind as she did it?
Chapter Twelve
February 1418
Stephen huddled further under his blanket and cursed himself. He had no one but himself to blame that he was here freezing his buttocks off. The midwinter siege was every bit as miserable as he had thought it would be. ’Twas the coldest winter in memory. So cold, in fact, that the king ordered huts built so his army would not freeze to death before the city succumbed.
Worse than the icy rain outside his hut was the foul smell of the men crowded within. Few washed, and most still wore the clothes they arrived in more than two months ago. If he was not sure to be a frozen corpse by morning, Stephen would sleep outside to get away from the stench.
Yet he chose to be here. In weekly missives, Sir John Popham begged the king to send Stephen back to Caen. The king, however, acceded to Stephen’s request to remain until the city surrendered.
Each time Stephen thought of leaving, the slaughter at Caen came back to him: the women’s screams, the old men hacked to death, the blood of innocents splattered on his boots.
Nay, he could not leave. He must stay and do what he could to prevent a recurrence of that horror when Falaise fell.
How he longed for the siege to be over! The tedium nearly drove him mad. The day-and-night bombardment against the city walls gave him a constant headache. Weeks of abstinence made him more irritable still. Under such conditions, the camp women did a lively trade. But Stephen was never one to use whores. Even if he were fool enough to risk the pox, just the sight of those sorry women depressed him.
With so much time on his hands, little wonder his thoughts were so often on Isobel. But why no other women? Even his dreams were all of her. He would lie on his cot and try to imagine other women, but their features always faded into hers. Serious green eyes were the only ones he saw.
He missed her.
What was that?He sat up on his cot and listened to the strange quiet. The bombardment had stopped. Tossing his blanket aside, he drew his cloak on and left the hut.
He found William warming his hands at one of the fires that were kept burning day and night.
“We’ve smashed a breach in the walls,” William said by way of greeting. “The town has agreed to surrender at first light.”
“Will the king speak to the men?”
William knew what he was asking. “The king will remind them he will tolerate no rape or murder,” William said. “Still, there are always some who will do it.”
An hour after dawn, the king led his army through the city’s open gates. Stephen was relieved the soldiers appeared to take the king’s warning to heart, for they remained orderly. Perhaps the men were too cheerful at the prospect of sleeping in the warm houses of the town to commit mayhem. The soldiers did comb the city for valuables, the legitimate spoils of war. Though “the lion’s share” went to the crown, the finders got a percentage of the value.
As he and William continued patrolling the streets without incident, Stephen began to relax. Men were helping themselves to drink, waving swords, and bashing in doors, but there was no real harm in that. He and William turned their horses down a quiet street of well-kept houses and shops.
