“York?” He looked surprised. “Why York?”
“There is a man I must speak to there.” She bit her lip, hesitant to reveal more.
“This man, he is important to your quest?”
“Very. He may give me the information I have been seeking for over a year now.”
“What information?”
Helena hesitated again and Stephen frowned. “You still do not trust me, Elen?”
“I trust you with my life,” she said frankly, swiftly.
“Then?”
“You do not believe me when I say that to tell you would put you in jeopardy!”
“I have lived with danger for many years now. Another layer would not be noticed.”
Helena shook her head. She could not tell him this, not Stephen, a man loyal to the king.
He sat on the dainty seat and studied her. “Elen, if I did know the truth, would I have given you my oath as I did last night?”
Helena dropped her gaze from his penetrating one, for she was suddenly unsure of herself.
“Elen?” he probed, his voice deceptively quiet. “Would I have been so willing, if I had known?”
“I don’t know,” she answered truthfully. She looked up at him. He watched her with a still, quiet concentration that frightened her.
“Tell me,” he said simply. “Let me be the judge.”
And because the look in his eyes frightened her, she told him, “I look for a man’s name. The man in York—he will be able to tell me who this person is, I hope.”
“And when you have the name? What then?”
Helena could not form the words. She had held them too closely to her heart for too long.
“Is it revenge you seek, Elen?”
Helena dropped her eyes, shamed. “Yes,” she whispered.
“Elen, look at me.” Stephen’s voice was very low.
She dragged her gaze back to his face, to his dark, suddenly forbidding eyes.
“What revenge is it you seek, Elen? Do you intend to ruin him?”
“I don’t know,” she answered honestly.
“Or do you intend to kill him?”
She flinched and dropped her gaze, for in the dark of the night when she lay planning her next step, the thought of that faceless man’s blood flowing from his neck, the way her father had died, sustained her fury. Day after day it had fed her determination to find her father’s murderer.
“Oh, Elen,” Stephen breathed.
Helena jerked her chin up at the disappointment in Stephen’s tone and her anger stirred. “You cannot judge me when you do not know what this man has done to me and my family.”
“I do not need to know what he has done. Elen, revenge will not give you the satisfaction you seek. It will not right the wrongs you want redressed.”
Helena shook her head. “You don’t know that!”
Stephen came to his feet. “I speak of what is in here,” and he rested his hand over her heart. “It will not take that ache away.”
“No, you don’t understand at all!”
“Are you willing to tell me all of the truth so that I might try?”
Helena wavered. Oh, how tempting to share all of it with him! To share the burden of it and to tap, perhaps, into his strength and skill to help her. But she could not. “It is because I care about what happens to you that I cannot tell you.” She struggled to keep her voice even.
Stephen turned and went back to the window. His silence was worse than condemnation.
“Stephen?”
He sighed. “Revenge. I should have expected a heart as strong as yours to be capable of holding such a dangerous obsession.” He laid his head against the window frame as if suddenly weary. “Must I forever pay the price it exacts?”
Helena felt herself tremble. Stephen frightened her with his strange words.
There was an urgent scratching at the door. “My lady Isobel!” came a hiss from the other side. “Are you there?”
Helena recognized the voice. It was Maud. Never had there been a more untimely interruption!
“Stephen?” she whispered again, hoping for a sign she had not completely alienated him.
“My lady?” came the voice again and this time the door creaked open. Helena watched it, desperately wishing it had a bar as did others in the house. She glanced despairingly at Stephen, who had not moved nor shown any sign of having heard Maud. In a moment it would be too late.
Maud’s flushed face peered around the edge of the door. “You are here!” she said thankfully and thrust the door wide. “My lady, there’s a fair rumpus downstairs. The Lady Catherine and Sir Hubert are turning the house upside down looking for you.”
“Dear lord!” Helena murmured. “I have been too long away.”
“You must come at once,” Maud insisted.
Helena glanced back at Stephen. “Stephen?” she asked one last time.
“Go with her,” he said briefly. “You cannot afford to be questioned too closely on your movements.” His words seemed infinitely bitter.
Helena knew she must go at once but was pinned to the spot. How could she possibly leave him without a chance to try to undo some of the damage she had done?
“My lady!” Maud piped in a frantic squeak.
Helena left. As the door to the room swung shut behind her, she clamped her jaws tightly together to hold back the sob of frustration.
* * * * *
As soon as he judged Helena had traversed the long passage to the stair, Stephen left the room and headed for the main hall. There was always a flask of wine to be found and the dubious company there would be better than his own bitter, crowded thoughts.
Revenge! Why hadn’t he anticipated this? What else would drive someone to such lengths to disguise her identity and assume another? Helena had even been willing to undergo whatever trials Savaric might put her through for the sake of revenge.
The hall was occupied. The first person Stephen identified was Savaric with his dirty white robe and colorless hair and skin. John stood next to him. Beside John were three of his most trusted barons. Opposite, wringing his hands and shuffling from foot to foot like an errant page boy, stood Hubert Fitzwarren, alone.
“She can’t be much longer, Your Grace,” he said, as Stephen tallied the occupants of the room.
John wore a scowl. “I hope this lack of respect is not one of Isobel’s more permanent traits, Fitzwarren. This is quite unacceptable.”
“You did catch us by surprise, Your Grace. We were not expecting you. Half of Oxford is readying to leave.”
“Which should emphasize for you how much I extend myself on this matter,” John snapped back.
Savaric stooped to speak in John’s ear. Stephen heard the scratched words easily, for the hall echoed every sound. “Sire, we did arrive without warning.”
John scowled again and slapped his gauntlets against his palm. “Fine,” he said crisply. “You! Woman!” he called to a kitchen wench scurrying for the door. “Bring more wine. Mulled! And cups for all.”
He looked around the hall, which was empty of trestles during the day. The head table was a proper one and remained close to the fire. John walked over to the high chair that had been his for the past three nights and lowered himself into it. “It’s pointless trying to hurry a woman, hey, Savaric?”
“You speak wisely, sire.” Savaric sat next to him.
Hubert scurried to sit across from them.
Casually, as if he had every right to be there, Stephen settled himself at the table with John’s barons. No one commented on his presence. No one seemed to notice. All of them watched John. Well they might, for John’s temper was as legendary as that of all the Plantagenet men…and women. Savaric had quite a hold on the man if a simple suggestion was enough to calm him.
Servants hurried in with steaming pitchers of mulled wine and trays of cups. There was enough to serve the men thrice over. Such extravagance spoke of the kitchen staff’s nervousness. The wine would be chilled before the last
pitcher was broached.
What was on John’s mind? What did Helena have to do with it? Stephen lingered to have those questions answered.
A murmur from the door heralded the arrival of the women. They hurried into the room in a clump. At the center of the busy hive of drones was Helena, as stately as any queen. She walked with her chin up, shoulders square, wearing a gown of some fine material that shimmered and glowed in the firelight. The dress was designed to display a woman’s figure to best advantage. It clung to hip and breast and the low belt molded the material to her waist.
There was a hectic slash of color across each cheek. Clearly, Helena knew she was the focus of attention. But the dark, midnight eyes did not waver.
John put down his cup. “Lady Isobel. I have made some arrangements for your convenience. Savaric has offered his hospitality to your sponsor, Sir Hubert Fitzwarren, who has gladly accepted. The invitation is extended to you too.”
Helena looked at Catherine. “But you wished to return to Worcester, my lady. I would be remiss if I insisted you remain away from your home any longer and I cannot travel without female escort.”
“Nonsense! Give it no thought,” Catherine said instantly.
John tapped the table impatiently with the base of his cup. “It is precisely the matter of proper escort that prompted the arrangements I have made. I will personally escort you and your sponsors to York so no accusations of impropriety may be leveled against you.”
“York?” Helena repeated, plainly startled.
York. The place she needed to reach in order to complete her quest. Stephen sat forward, watching Helena’s reactions. Fate could be a double-edged sword!
“Yes, York,” John answered impatiently.
“I have a fine castle there, Lady Isobel,” Savaric said. “It sits high on the hill, overlooking the town. Perhaps you have heard of it? Or seen it?”
All the color drained from Helena’s face. Even the bars of pink in her cheeks faded. Stephen stopped himself from leaping forward to help her, already convinced she would faint.
But Helena kept on her feet and spoke evenly. “I thank you for the kind offer of your personal escort, Your Grace. I would not feel safe in anyone else’s company.”
And for the barest fraction of a heartbeat, her gaze flicked toward Stephen. He clenched his cup. Then she had seen him there among the barons. What did she think of him now? Or did she weigh the risks of going to York against the possibility of exacting her revenge on the poor bastard she sought? What would be her choice?
“I should like to go to York. I’ve heard it is a well-appointed place.” Helena’s voice was low, controlled.
Ah, Elen, Stephen thought regretfully. This thirst for revenge drives you. Where will it take you next?
Part II
York
Chapter Eleven
The walls of York were built upon foundations laid by the Romans. They rose up before the party of horsemen, visible from afar, brooding over the junction of two rivers. It was a most ancient fortress city and the center of commerce in the north. Pleasure swelled Helena’s heart at her first glimpse.
“God, I hate York,” John sighed, slumping in his saddle like a dejected child.
“Why is that, Your Grace?” Helena asked, although she knew the answer.
“The Plantagenets have had a hard time holding this place in their name,” Savaric said blandly. “They could only hold it as long as the lord here was loyal to them.” He spoke from the back of a placid roan mare on John’s other side. Helena glanced at John. He did not seem to mind this bold airing of family history.
“You speak of his highness’ brother, the Archbishop of York?” Helena prompted.
“Geoffrey was a fool,” John said shortly. “He deserved everything he got.” He sat straighter in his saddle. “Well, I hope the castle’s wine supply still holds well, Savaric. That was one thing that never failed here.”
“It holds, sire.”
Helena wondered again why John did not call Savaric out, or take him to task for the blatant insult in many of his words. But the arrogance and condescension glanced off John like an arrow against a shield. She had learned Savaric could speak frankly of things to John no other man would dare broach in even the most diplomatic terms.
This was their fifth day on the road. Helena had learned much besides Savaric’s familiarity with John. She had learned from the moment they set out from Oxford that Hubert and Catherine would do anything to see her married to Savaric. Far from actually riding abreast with them as Helena had expected, she found herself being pushed forward to ride with John and Savaric, while Hubert and Catherine rode several paces back—not far enough to fail in their duties as sponsors but far enough to avoid impeding the relationship they clearly hoped would develop.
Their obvious manipulation dismayed her. It felt like betrayal. Since leaving Oxford, Helena had cursed herself for expecting any loyalty from people who had eagerly accepted money in exchange for their sponsorship.
She had reluctantly taken her station by John’s side but carefully chose the side opposite Savaric, which put John between them. After five days it was now a custom and John did not seem to mind his role as intermediary.
John was a surprisingly pleasant companion. Helena had not met any other members of the royal family but she suspected John’s easy ways were similar to the charm Richard and Eleanore were famous for and the rough heartiness of Henry, John’s father. John held these qualities in milder measure. They had been smoothed and tempered by the trials of being the youngest and least-favored son of a legendary family.
Savaric remained as obscure to her as he had been on the first day of travel. He was mostly silent, imparting a pithy comment only when it suited him, or when John plainly expected him to speak. For the remainder of the time, he rode with his eyes on the road ahead. Helena suspected he was not looking at anything with those colorless eyes. He looked inward, rather, dealing with thoughts that occupied him completely. He seemed to have no interest in talking to her, much less wooing her—not even the peremptory, stiffly formal courtship process considered the acceptable minimum these days.
And where was Stephen? He had said he would get word to her. He knew she was being taken to York. Would he still send a message to her now? Their last words had been…inconclusive. She’d not had a chance to speak to him since her agreement to go to York, for he had slipped away from the dining hall and she had not seen him since.
He was never far from her thoughts, however. Even though Helena no longer knew how Stephen felt about her and his oath to her, she still felt her quest was not a solitary one anymore. It did not matter that he was not here. The loneliness did not return when he was gone. It was a private source of strength for Helena. It was what had allowed her to risk riding into the dragon’s mouth, to agree to go to York as Savaric’s guest, even though it put her in a much more dangerous position. Her agreement placed her where she needed to be to find her father’s killer.
They were at the bridge now, a handsome span of stonework stretching across the river, right up to the town walls. The gates of the city, the Bars, stood open, as they always did during the day. The guards were in attendance but more often than not they merely touched their brows in casual acknowledgment as someone rode through.
Helena’s handsome, high-fettled horse, a mount lent to her by John himself, skittered nervously as he felt stone beneath his feet. The leading men of the entourage shouted to the guards. “Make way! Make way for the Count of Mortaine!” Abruptly the guards snapped to rigid attention and stayed that way as Helena, John and Savaric passed. She was thankful for that small reprieve. While they stood thus, they could not look up at her face.
The city had not changed. It was still full of life and color. Children ran in the streets, the markets were busy and crowded, produce looked plentiful and the long bolts of beautiful woolen cloth that Yorkshire was renowned for were on display everywhere. The houses were all in good repair.
; Even though Helena was afraid that at any moment someone would recognize her and call out her real name, she found herself smiling, heart aching as she saw familiar sights and even people she had once known. It had been nearly two years since she had walked freely in these streets.
But this was not a homecoming. Not yet.
Helena surreptitiously wiped the tears away, the movement curtained by the edge of her veil. She straightened her back. She was a Norman lady on her way to yet another castle and that was all. These people and this town were strangers to her. She could not afford to forget that.
The castle loomed before them at the top of the hill. Helena had always been proud of the clean, utilitarian lines of the buildings and walls and they still pleased her, despite having seen a great many more castles recently.
John waved his hand toward the structure. “There. Is it not a forbidding place? Who could build such a plain building? There is not a skerrick of decoration to it. Now, you should see Pontefract. That is more to my taste.”
“Its very plainness is pleasing,” Helena ventured. “It looks sturdy.”
From the corner of her eye she saw Savaric turn his head sharply in her direction. It was the first time any of her words had caused a reaction in him.
“Sturdy!” John snorted. “Ah, it’s sturdy enough. Savaric finds it pleasing, heaven knows! He would spend all his time here, brooding over his new possession.”
“Then you have not held the castle long, my lord?” Helena asked Savaric politely. It was the first time she had addressed him directly during the journey but she could not resist probing this matter.
John answered, clapping Savaric on the shoulder. “He won it in escheat. The previous owner had the misjudgment to cross my brother. He might have learned the lesson well if he had lived long enough.” He laughed. “One thing Richard excels at is holding a grudge.”
Only by breathing deeply did Helena manage to contain her indignation, her fury. She clenched the reins, the leather buckling under her gauntlets. She turned her head slightly so the veil hid her eyes from view, for she was certain they would see her anger there.
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