“You think a boy with those delicate looks is safe with priests?”
Stephen clamped his mouth shut as he absorbed this latest remark. “I will take them with me to Caen,” he said after a moment’s reflection. “The boy can serve as my page.”
“And the girl?” William said, raising an eyebrow. “You cannot keep her. People will think the worst.”
Stephen scowled at the notion anyone could think him so depraved. The girl was, what, eleven?
“I suppose we can find someone to take her in as a kitchen maid,” William said, sounding dubious.
“I know a lady who needs a new maid,” Stephen said, brightening at the thought. “And she will be kind to the girl.”
It was only when the girl turned her startling blue eyes up at him that Stephen realized she’d stopped squirming long ago.
“Who is this lady?” she asked in accented English.
Stephen laughed. “So you speak English, you rascal?”
“But of course.” The girl did not add “you fool,” but it was implied in her tone. “What is the lady’s name,s’il vous plaît?”
“Lady Isobel Hume,” he said, grinning down at her.
He heard William curse under his breath, but he ignored it.
Chapter Thirteen
February 1418
Isobel felt like Job. After her years of suffering, God was rewarding her. De Roche was young and handsome. Respectful, attentive. A man of honor, bent on doing good in the world.
He was solicitous of her, sharing a trencher with her at every meal, taking afternoon walks with her when the weather permitted. When it was too wet for strolling, as it was today, he sat with her by the keep’s great hearth and talked with her while she sewed.
De Roche was a serious man, and he talked of serious matters.
She stifled a yawn as he spoke yet again of his responsibility as a man of rank and fortune to help bring peace and prosperity to Normandy. She agreed wholeheartedly. His determination was admirable. Still, she found the repetition, well, a trifle tedious.
Damn that Stephen Carleton! If not for him, she would not even notice de Roche’s lack of humor.
She had every reason to be content. She would be content.
’Twas true, de Roche never made her laugh. But duty weighed heavily upon him. He had an important role to play in the service of his country; it would gratify her to support him.
“Now, King Henry—there is a man born to lead armies,” de Roche was saying. “A man born to command.”
De Roche sang the king’s praises so often her mind began to wander.
When would he kiss her?
Would his kiss make her feel the way Stephen’s did? She stared at de Roche’s mouth as he talked. Wondering. Longing to find out. Perhaps, once de Roche kissed her, she could stop thinking about Stephen.
A full month since his arrival, and de Roche had not kissed her once. He often looked at her as if he wanted to. On more than one occasion, she thought he tried to separate her from her guardian. Robert, however, took his duty more seriously than before, for he was there at every turn.
The thought niggled at her that de Roche could have found a way around Robert if he wanted to badly enough.
Stephen would have.
A sudden clamor of voices from outside drew her attention toward the hall’s entrance. As she watched, a man burst through the door and shouted, “The army returns! Falaise has fallen! Falaise has fallen!”
They were back. Praise God! A laugh of relief caught in her throat when she turned and saw de Roche’s face. The man had gone pale as death.
