“This will not stand!” Her father stormed up and down the room, eyes bulging and hands flying in the air. “We will take this up with Bishop Beaufort. Then we shall see! Surely the king’s uncle can cure this fraud. I swear, Isobel, we shall see young Graham imprisoned for this.”
Before the last shovel of dirt covered Hume’s body, Isobel and her father set out for Alnwick Castle. Bishop Beaufort was at the castle on business for the king.
Isobel pulled her horse up at the bridge and eyed the sprawling stone fortress above her. As a child, she had come here often. But that was in the days when Alnwick was home to the Earl of Northumberland—before Northumberland attempted to wrest the crown from Henry Lancaster.
Northumberland escaped to Scotland. The more important of his co-conspirators were beheaded, the lesser dispossessed. Foolish men, every one of them, to take on the Lancasters.
Her father, heedless as ever, spurred his horse over the river that served as Alnwick Castle’s first line of defense. Isobel followed more slowly. Bishop Beaufort was the wiliest of all the Lancasters.
“I hear Beaufort is the richest man in all of England,” her father said as they neared the gatehouse. “God’s beard, he’s loaned the crown vast sums for the king’s expedition to Normandy.”
“Hush!” she whispered. “Do not forgot he was half brother to our last king.”The king you committed treason against.
“I have my pardon from young King Henry,” he said, but he was not as confident as he pretended. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead as they rode through the barbican, the narrow passage designed to trap an enemy inside the main gate.
They were escorted into the keep and shut in a small anteroom to await the bishop’s pleasure. Almost at once, an immaculately dressed servant came to usher her father into the great hall for an audience. Isobel was left to stew while two men discussed her fate.
She was surprised when the servant returned a short time later without her father.
“His Grace the Bishop wishes to see you now, m’lady.” She must have been too slow to rise to her feet, for he arched an eyebrow and said, “His Grace is a busy man.”
She walked through the massive wooden door he held open for her and entered an enormous hall with high ceilings that drew the eye ever upward like a church.
There was no mistaking the man behind the heavy wooden table near the hearth. She would have known Bishop Beaufort by the power he exuded, even if he had not worn the vestments of his office—a gold silk chasuble over a snowy white linen alb with apparels worked in silk and gold at the wrists.
The bishop did not look up from his papers as she crossed the room. When she took her place before the table beside her father, she saw that the parchment in the bishop’s hands was her copy of Hume’s property conveyance.
Her father poked his elbow in her side and winked. His conversation with the bishop must have gone well, praise God!
“I do not believe,” the bishop said, his eyes still on the document, “the transfer of Hume’s property can be challenged.”
Stunned by the bishop’s swift dismissal of her cause, she shot a look at her father. His nod did not reassure her.
“Your father suggests a reasonable solution,” the bishop said, snapping her attention back to him. “Under the circumstances, the only honorable course open to Graham is to wed you. I shall see that he makes the offer.”
The bishop picked up a new sheaf of papers, dismissing both her and her problem.
“But I have already refused him.” Her voice seemed to echo in the cavernous hall. “I do not mean to be ungrateful for your kind assistance, Your Grace,” she added hastily. “But I could not marry the man who stole my property. He is wholly without honor.”
The bishop set his papers aside and truly looked at her for the first time. Powerful as he was, he could not move her; she met his eyes so he would know it. Instead of irritation, she saw keen interest in the sharp gaze he leveled at her.
“Let me speak alone with your daughter,” he said without taking his eyes from hers. Though spoken politely enough, it was not a request.
When the door closed behind her father, the bishop motioned for her to sit. She sat, hands clasped in her lap, and willed herself to stay calm as the bishop inspected her.
“Let us review your choices, Lady Hume,” he said, touching his steepled fingers to his chin. “First, you can accept Graham. With him, you keep your home, maintain your position.”
She opened her mouth to object and snapped it closed again.
“Second, you can return to your father’s care. With the generous dowry your father will provide”—the pointed look he gave her made it clear he knew the humiliating terms of her first marriage—“I am confident the next husband he finds for you will be as suitable as the last.”
He paused, as though to give her time to consider. Time, however, could improve neither choice.
Please God, is there no escape for me? None at all?
“I can offer you a third choice,” the bishop said in a slow, deliberate voice. He reached out and rested his long, tapered fingers on a rolled parchment at the side of his table. “I just received a letter from my nephew. He has taken Caen.”
“God preserve him,” she murmured. Desperately, she tried to think of what reason he could have for telling her of King Henry’s progress in reclaiming English lands in Normandy. The bishop did not seem like a man to speak without purpose.
