Just how large a sum had Hume given to the Cistercian monks at Melrose Abbey to say Masses for him? She did not begrudge the monks, but she hoped there would be sufficient funds left to make the long-neglected repairs to the castle.
“You speak of his will?” she asked.
“A will could not serve this purpose,” Father Dunne said in his ponderous voice. “A man may give his gold, his horse, and his armor to whomever he chooses in his will—but not his lands. Upon his death, his lands pass to his heirs.”
Father Dunne coughed, looking uneasy for the first time. “To give his lands to anyone else,” he said, drawing a rolled parchment from inside his robe, “a man must do it before his death.”
Isobel had tried for months to convince her husband to let Jamieson buy the small plot he worked so he could marry the miller’s daughter. With death knocking at his door, Hume must have finally done it. Good deeds, like prayers, could reduce his time in purgatory.
This must be what the priest was fussing about. She smiled and reached her hand out. “Let me see it, then.”
Father Dunne stepped back, clutching the document to his chest. “I suggest you sit first, Lady Hume.”
Isobel folded her arms and tapped her foot. “I prefer to stand.” Truly, the man did bring out the worst in her.
The priest tightened his mouth and began unrolling the parchment. “ ’Tis a simple document,” he said, still not giving it to her. “In essence, it grants all of Lord Hume’s lands, including this castle, to Bartholomew Graham.”
The priest had to be mistaken. Or lying. Still, the smug look on his face sent a wave of fear through her.
She ripped the parchment from his hands and scanned the words. She read them a second time, more slowly. And then again, a third time. She looked up, unseeing, and tried to take in the enormity of what her husband had done to her. Surely he would not do this. Could not do it. Not after all she had given up, all she had done for him.
For eight long years she was at the beck and call of a peckish old man who wore her down with his whining and constant demands. Day after day after day. Listening to his tedious conversation. Trying not to watch as food and drink dribbled down his chins and onto his fine clothes.
And then there were the nights.
She put her hand to her chest, fighting the feeling of suffocation. Once again, she saw him huffing and puffing over her, red-faced and sweating. God’s mercy! How she feared he would fall dead on top of her and trap her beneath his enormous weight. After years without conceiving, she finally convinced him the risk to his health was too great.
She resented every day, every hour, of her marriage. Still, she had done her duty by her husband.
“It must be a forgery,” she murmured, looking down at the parchment again. She recognized the script as the priest’s, but that meant nothing. With shaking hands, she uncurled the final roll of the document.
She ran numb fingertips over the familiar seal.
She watched as the parchment slipped from her hand and fluttered to the floor. The ground shifted beneath her feet. As she reached out to catch herself, the room went black.
Isobel awoke to the nightmarish sight of Graham and that weasel of a priest hovering over her. Before she could gather her wits, Graham lifted her to the bench, his hands touching her in more places than necessary for the task.
As she looked down, a deep red drop hit the bodice of her gown. Bewildered, she touched her finger to it.
“You struck your head on the bench when you fell,” Father Dunne said, handing her a cloth. “I did warn you to sit.”
“Leave us, Father Dunne,” Graham said, as if he were already lord of the castle.
The priest’s eyes darted back and forth between them as he backed out of the room. Isobel suspected he went no farther than the other side of the door.
She glared up at Graham as she dabbed at the cut on her forehead. “How did you get Hume to do it?”
Graham dropped next to her on the bench, sitting so close that his thigh touched hers. Too light-headed to stand, she slid to the edge of the bench.
“Hume came to believe I was his son,” Graham said, smiling at her. “You know how much he wanted one.”
“So you lied to him!”
“Well, it certainly could be true,” he said with a shrug. “Fortunately, the conveyance is not dependent upon it.”
Graham’s mother had been a wealthy widow, notorious in this part of the Borders. When she became pregnant, more than one man stepped forward, claiming to be the father and offering to marry her. She disappointed them all by keeping her property—and the secret of her son’s parentage—to herself.
“I gave my husband no cause to punish me,” Isobel murmured to herself. She could not believe Hume would leave her destitute.
“In sooth, the old man was most concerned for your welfare.” Graham stretched his legs out and crossed his arms behind his head. “It gave him great comfort to know I would wed you after his death.”
“You would do what?” She must have misheard him.
“Finally, you shall have a man who can please you.” His hot breath was in her ear, but she was too stunned to move. “I’ve wanted you since you were a girl, still playing at sword fighting with the boys.”
Coming back to her senses, she slapped at the hand creeping up her thigh. “What would make you believe I would agree to marry you?”
“You would prefer,” he said in an amused tone, “to return to your father’s house?”
The blood drained from her head. ’Twas true. If she could not remain at Hume Castle, she had no place else to go. She sank against the stone wall behind her and closed her eyes.
“Do not fret—your father would not keep you long,” Graham said, patting her knee. “Though you are no longer an untouched girl, he’ll have no trouble finding another old man to pay to have such a beauty in his bed.”
She swung her arm to slap him, but he caught her wrist.
“ ’Tis always exciting to be with you, Isobel.” With his eyes hot on hers, he pried her fist open and ran his tongue over her palm, sending a quiver of revulsion through her.
All these years, she had sorely misjudged him. She had considered him a mere annoyance, fool that she was. Only now did she see he was not merely shallow and selfish, but ruthless and cunning. The handsome face and easy manner hid a man without honor.
A man who would take what he wanted.
“I shall return in a few days to take my place here,” he said.
Isobel’s limbs went weak with relief as he rose to go.
At the door, he turned. “Send a message,” he said, giving her a wink, “if you cannot wait so long.”
Chapter Two
As soon as Graham was out the door, she raced to it and slid the bar across. Rage pulsed through her now, blurring her vision. She paced the room, clenching her fists until her nails cut into her palms. What could she do? Surely there must be some way to challenge the theft of her property. But how would she go about it? Who could help her?
The only person she trusted was her brother. But Geoffrey was in Normandy with the king’s army. She covered her face in her hands, not wanting to think now how worried she was about him. Her sweet, dreamy brother was no soldier. Sending him off to fight was one more thing she would not forgive her father.
Her father. In this alone he would be her ally. He would care if she lost her property.
In the end, she sent for him, for she had no one else to ask.
An hour later, her maid poked her head through the solar door. “M’lady, Sir Edward awaits you in the hall.”
Her father must have set out as soon as he received her message.
Isobel hurried down the stairs to the hall. At the entrance she halted, caught off guard by the wave of loss that hit her at the sight of the familiar bullish frame. Her father stood half turned from her, surveying the imposing hall with a smile of satisfaction on his face. After all these years, it should not hurt this much to see him.
What a foolish girl she was. She had believed her father delayed betrothing her because he could not find a man he deemed worthy. Galahads are hard to come by.
Then he sold her like cattle. To a man like Hume.
She recalled how her legs shook and her breath came in gasping hiccups as she climbed down from Hume’s high bed to wash that first night. Behind the screen, she lit a candle and poured water into the basin. As she wiped the blood smeared along the inside of her thigh, it struck her: her father knew what Hume would do to her. He knew, and yet he gave her to the man anyway.
“Isobel, ’tis good to see you!” Her father’s booming voice jarred her back to the present.
When he came toward her as though he would embrace her, she stopped him with a lift of her hand.
“ ’Tis a shame,” he said, “it took your husband’s death for you to receive me in your home.”
Isobel resented both the criticism and the hurt in his voice. “Come, we must speak in private.”
With no further greeting, she turned and led him up the stairs to the solar. Here, too, he looked about with a proprietary air, admiring the rich tapestries and costly glass window.
“Who would have thought the old man would live so long?” he said, his good cheer restored. “But now this fine castle and all the Hume lands are yours! I told you marriage was a woman’s path to power.”
Before Isobel could step back, he took hold of her arms. “With what Hume has left you,” he said, his eyes alight, “who knows how high you may reach next time?”
Isobel could only stare at him in horror. Could her father truly believe she would let him plan a second marriage for her?
“I know ’twas not easy,” he said, his voice softer. “But now you shall reap the reward for your sacrifice.”
“My ‘sacrifice,’ as you call it, has been for naught—at least, naught for me!” Isobel was so choked with emotion, she could barely get the words out. “Hume gave you what you wanted the day the marriage was consummated, but he’s left me with nothing.”
“He what?”
As she looked into her father’s face, her rage returned full force. “My lord husband gave away all the lands I was to inherit.” She wanted to pound her fists against her father’s chest like the willful child she once was. “You promised I would have my independence once he died. You promised me!”
His fingers dug painfully into her arms. “You are mistaken. Hume had no children; his lands must come to you.”
“He has given it all to Bartholomew Graham!” she shouted at him. “My home. My lands. Every last parcel.”
“The devil take him!” her father exploded. “What reason could Hume have?”
Isobel covered her face with her hands. “Graham tricked the old fool into believing he was his son.”
“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 a
ll?
“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.
“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?”
Knight of Pleasure Page 2