Page 7 of Knight of Pleasure
“The king is anxious to strengthen the ties between England and Normandy. Come spring, Parliament will offer incentives to English merchants to settle there.”
Merchants? What could this have to do with her?
“Alliances among the nobility are even more important.” He tapped the rolled parchment with his forefinger. “The king asks for my assistance in making such… arrangements.”
Her thoughts seemed thick and slow as she struggled to understand the import of his words.
“I offer you the opportunity to enter into a marriage advantageous to you,” he said. “And to England.”
Her breath caught. “In Normandy?”
“You must marry someone,” the bishop said, turning his palm up on the table. He leaned forward a fraction and narrowed his eyes. “I think perhaps you are a woman who would prefer the devil you do not know over the devil you do.”
Knowing she was being played by a master did not help her one whit.
The bishop drummed his fingers lightly on the table.
She tried to think it through. A stranger could hardly be worse than Graham. And if she were in Normandy, she could watch over her brother. But how could she agree to wed a man she knew nothing about?
The bishop drummed his fingers again.
“Would I be permitted to meet the French ‘devil’ first, before committing to marry him?”
An appreciative smile briefly touched the bishop’s lips, but he shook his head. “Even if you leave before a betrothal can be arranged, you will be bound by your pledge to the king.” He arched one thin eyebrow. “Do you have some…requirement… you wish me to pass on to the king?”
A knight, brave and true, good and kind. The description of a Camelot knight came to her, quite inexplicably. Flushing, she shook her head.
“After your father’s… misjudgments… of the past,” the bishop said, his nostrils flaring ever so slightly, “such a marriage would do much to restore your family to the king’s good graces.”
“May I have time to consider, Your Grace?”
“Of course.” With a glimmer in his eye he said, “Soon the crossing will be impossible until spring, but I am sure you wish to spend the long winter months here, with your father.”
Oh, he was a clever man.
The bishop rose to his feet. “I leave for Westminster in three days. Until then, you may send a message to me here.”
With no further word, he swept out of the room.
Chapter Three
Duchy of Normandy
October 1417
Sir Stephen Carleton awoke to a blinding headache. He lay still, listening to the distant sound of wind and rain, and tried to recall where he was. Aye, he was with King Henry’s army in Normandy. In the town of Caen, in fact.
But where, precisely, in Caen?
Giving up, he slit one eye open and winced at the dim light. It came through an arrow slit, so he was somewhere in the castle. But this was not his bedchamber. And what was he doing in bed when it was yet daylight—
He groaned. Gingerly, he turned his head for confirmation. Upon seeing the bare shoulder and tousled blond hair, he squeezed his eyes shut again. Marie de Lisieux. God help him, she was a lot of woman to forget.
He edged his arm out from under her, taking great care not to disturb her. Pleased at his success, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed—much, much too quickly.
Resting his head in his hands to recover, he looked down at his limp member and wondered if it would ever rise again. The woman was insatiable. No wonder her husband turned a blind eye to her infidelities; the man was grateful for the respite.
How had he ended up in bed with her again? A wave of self-loathing washed over him, making him desperate for a drink. Ironic, since drink was what had gotten him here. But drink kept at bay the visions that plagued him.
