“I went to a good deal of trouble to ensure they would not learn of it,” he said. “ ’Tis a shame you told my cousin.”
“Your cousin?”
“Aye, you met Thomás today, downstairs.” He shook his finger at her. “My cousin is a dangerous man. You should have stayed in your rooms as I told you.”
“Thomás? You mean LeFevre? LeFevre is your cousin?” She sucked in her breath. Was Thomás the “T” in the letter? Had she warned the king of the wrong man?
“So many questions, Isobel. Fortunately, it is as much in Thomás’s interest as mine to keep the secret.” He tilted his head and said, “Still, he is quite angry with me. You see, it is his young half sister who is my wife.”
She was reeling from all the revelations. One thought rose above all the others clamoring in her head. If de Roche was married and her betrothal false,she was not bound to him.
Roche lifted her chin with his forefinger. “No matter what Thomás says, I shan’t give you up soon.”
She slapped his face, hard.
He regarded her with icy gray eyes as he touched the red mark she left on his cheek. “Your king has quaint notions of chivalry. Since he told me he would send an envoy—and I could not yet risk offending him—I had to take care with you before.”
He took her wrists and held them in an iron grasp in one hand. Then, his expression cool, he swung his other arm and backhanded her so violently that her ears rang.
“But now?” he said. “Now there is nothing to keep me from doing whatever I want with you.”
He kissed her hard, bruising her lips and grinding his hips against her. Still stunned from the slap, she did not fight him. When he released her, she fell back against the wall. She focused on the hair’s breadth between them and pressed herself against the wall.
“I shall not be able to return to you until late.” He rubbed the back of his fingers against her stinging cheek. “I suggest you spend the time thinking of ways to please me.”
He gave her cheek a pinch that made her eyes sting before finally turning to go out the door. She heard the key scrape in the lock as she sank to the floor.
How long did she lie there, clutching her knees and shaking so hard her teeth chattered? The room grew pitch-black, and still she could not make herself get up.
How would she bear it? How could she live until her father sent the ransom? Would her father pay it? Or would he leave her here forever? If she went home, it would be in shame—perhaps with de Roche’s child in her belly. The blemish on her virtue would be no less for not being her fault.
She pounded her fists on the floor. How could she have mistaken de Roche’s stern nature for honorable character? His arrogance for seriousness of purpose? The man was an oath breaker of the worst kind. And he was related by blood—and by marriage—to that monk killer. She could hardly breathe thinking of LeFevre being under the same roof.
As she lay on the floor in the darkness, bits of what de Roche told her floated through her head. Then the bits began to fit together.
Did de Roche know of his cousin’s attack on the abbey? God preserve her! Was de Roche the traitor who sent men to ambush FitzAlan that day? Isobel covered her face and rocked her head back and forth against the floor. If he did it, then de Roche was the vilest of men. As vile as his cousin.
A memory came to her of Linnet, eyes bright with anger, slapping a dagger in her hand. Isobel sat up. She would have de Roche’s blood before she let him touch her again!
Her thoughts returned to LeFevre as she hurried to light the lamps. If Thomás LeFevre was the “T” who signed the letter, then he was the cousin involved in the plot to murder the king, not Trémoille. Would Trémoille’s head be on a pike because of her false accusation?
She stood stock still. If she had the wrong man, she could have everything else wrong, as well. She thought the murder was planned for the knighting ceremony only because of Trémoille. Armagnacs, however, would choose some other occasion—and the king would have no warning.
To have any hope of saving the king, she must first save herself. Somehow she had to escape from the house and steal a horse. Once she got out of the house, she would figure out how to get to Caen.
After trying the locked door, she jumped onto the window seat and leaned out the window. She might just be able to reach the top branches of the tree and climb down. If she did not break her neck, she could escape through the house from the courtyard.
She needed her weapons. She ran to her chest and tossed gowns and slippers to the floor until she found her daggers. Then, through the layers at the very bottom, her fingers touched the scabbard of her sword.
When she leaned down to strap a dagger to her calf, she caught sight of dull brown in the midst of the colorful silks and velvets heaped on the floor. Her brother’s tunic! She would be far less conspicuous traveling as a man than as a silk-clad noblewoman.
She slid her sword into the narrow space between the mattress and the frame of her bed for safekeeping while she changed. It was out of sight but within easy reach, should de Roche return before she was ready.
The blade of her dagger served as lady’s maid. One long stroke and she stood naked, the cold sweat of fear on her skin. Moving swiftly, she donned her brother’s shirt, hose, tunic. Then she rammed her feet into her boots and hooked one dagger into her belt. As she slid the other dagger into her boot, she heard voices outside the door.
There was no time! Heart in her throat, she dashed into the solar and leapt onto the window seat. She heard the muffled rattle of keys as she heaved herself up onto the window ledge. She had one leg dangling outside before she realized she’d left her sword behind. Damn, damn, damn!
She heard the softclick, clickof the key turning the lock. Heart thundering, she swung her other leg over the ledge. She peered through the darkness, trying desperately to judge the distance to the nearest branch. It looked much farther than before.