Head averted, Helena rode across the drawbridge, under the portcullis and through the dark gatehouse tunnel. Their horses’ hooves clattered loudly. Then they were once again out into the weak sunshine of the bailey. A cry went up for stablemen and pages.
All at once, before she was ready, there were people around her, holding her horse’s bridle and extending hands to help her from her mount. Voices lifted and the bailey became full of noise and movement. She was helped to the ground and Helena looked up to find herself staring into a weathered face as wrinkled as the ancient oaks of Barnsdale and just as brown. Faded blue eyes passed over her face and then widened.
Merriman.
There was no time for a covert signal that might be missed in the bustle and din around them. Helena’s horse was behind her, shielding her from John and Savaric. Her veil would have to provide cover from the sides. Quickly she raised a gauntlet-covered finger to her lips and breathed a quiet, “Shhhhh.”
Merriman’s eyes widened a little more then, thankfully and he nodded infinitesimally. “This way, my lady,” he said. Helena could have kissed him, for he spoke Norman French instead of English as he would have done under normal circumstances. She was deeply relieved it was Merriman she had seen first. He would know what to do without her having to explain it. He would pass the word throughout the castle and into the city itself, perhaps even get word out further, that Lord Savaric’s guest, who bore such an astonishing resemblance to the woman Helena they had once known was called Lady Isobel of Brittany.
Helena lifted the heavy skirt of her riding dress and the thick material of the cape and prepared to follow Merriman inside and then halted. For Catherine stood a dozen paces away, watching her, a scowl on her tired face.
Had she seen? No, Helena had been sure none of her companions had been within sight.
Trying to dismiss the sudden leap of fear, Helena turned and walked inside, keeping her head down to avoid more unfortunate recognition. But when they gathered at the door to the beautiful main hall, with its soaring vaulted ceilings, large windows and beautifully laid stonework floor, Helena could not resist the need to glance up at the wall over the fire pit. Once there had been a large portrait of her there—a rare and remarkable piece of work that never failed to elicit conversation among guests.
The wall was bare and there was no sign there had ever been anything there.
* * * * *
Catherine was shown into the room by a hunched old woman, who merely nodded and backed out behind her.
John stood looking out the narrow window. She curtsied to him and walked up to look over his shoulder. He was just barely taller than she.
The window looked down over the narrow streets and houses of the city. The wall of the castle dropped straight down from the window to the street far below.
“For someone who dislikes this city so much, you show uncommon interest in it, Your Grace.” Catherine ventured.
John turned to face her. “As you requested this meeting, Lady Fitzwarren and must therefore be seeking a favor from me, I’d advise you to curb your tongue.”
Catherine blinked. Was he angry with her?
“My mother always insisted a honeyed tongue soothed more trouble than it borrowed.” He reached for the polished bronze cup that was never far from his side.
Catherine licked her lips. Where to start? This was not going well at all.
John smiled. “Come, Lady Catherine. Tell me what you want. To hurry the arrangements for Isobel’s marriage to Savaric, is it not?”
Catherine recoiled, stunned. “I… Your Grace, I did not intend to speak so boldly. There are proprieties involved and she is but a ward…”
He shook his head impatiently. “Words. You want her married.”
“How did you know I seek to hurry the arrangements?” The guileless question jerked out of Catherine, a product of her shock.
John smiled again. This time the smile was ironic and twisted. “I may be the youngest, least favored and successful of the Plantagenets, Madam, but I am a Plantagenet. The line is not renowned for breeding simple-minded fools.”
Catherine’s breath came in quick gulps. “I meant no disrespect, Your Grace.”
“Naturally.” He did not smile this time. “One never does.” He put the cup down. “No man does anything to no purpose and you have ridden all the way to York simply as an escort to the Lady Isobel. As you gain nothing from such an arduous journey, clearly the potential marriage to Savaric is of overwhelming importance to you. Because I have some influence upon the arrangement, you have come to see me. You are not here to ask for me to delay the process, I am sure.”
“No, I am not,” Catherine replied truthfully. She studied him carefully. “I have underestimated you, Your Grace. You will make a fine king one day.”
John’s mouth, outlined by the black, well-trimmed beard, turned downward. “The quality of a king’s reign rather depends upon the state of affairs one is handed. If my brother continues on his high-handed way, there will be very little left for me to reign over but bickering knights and barons too used to having their own way for too long.” He moved to stand in front of Catherine. “I have been aware for some time, Madam, of your careful orchestration of the men around me and their loyalties.”
Catherine could not think of a single word in her defense. Had her plans really been so transparent?
But John had not yet finished with her belittlement. He crossed his arms. “I gain nothing from hurrying the arrangements between your ward and Savaric. Can you give me a reason why I should?”
A bargain! He wanted a bargain! Catherine frowned, her mind racing. What would he want? If he knew of her plans, of the alliances and friendships she had forged, then why had he not stopped her? Because…because it served his own purposes. He had as much as admitted his ambition to wear the crown.
The pieces of the puzzle fell into place. “It is not a cessation of my planning you seek, or you would have taken steps long before this moment,” she said slowly.
“I cannot gainsay you there.”
“Then it must be loyalty that you seek.”
“As your liege lord, loyalty to me is given under oath.”
“Only by my husband. It is my loyalty you seek, along with all the friendships I have forged among your barons and churchmen.”
John smiled. “Well done, Lady Catherine. I did not underestimate you at all. Do I have your loyalty?”
“My lord, I give it willingly.”
He studied her for a moment and then turned back to the window. “I will talk to Savaric,” he said.
Catherine realized she was dismissed. She curtsied again, although this time she did not wonder if the obeisance was wasted on a man with his back to her. She suspected John was aware of every move she made, whether he watched her or not.
“My Lord?”
This time he turned.
“Why do you risk your dignity to deal with a mere woman in this way?”
“You forget who my mother is, Catherine.” John returned his attention to the window. “Send for Savaric. Tell him I want to see him.”
* * * * *
Savaric strode from John’s chamber feeling a genuine and novel anger. Marriage! And to a foe he had already dealt with once. He had not thought John would pursue this matter when he had been so patently averse to the arrangement, yet for once he had misjudged John. There was something else driving him to hurry the marriage.
Marriage! The very word left a taste in his mouth fouler than the putrescent slop his mother used to serve as food. But he could not disobey John, not if he valued his life. How could he deal with this? How could he use it to his own advantage? Isobel came with lands, certainly. John was right on that point. She was a pretty package, indeed.
Savaric ran his nails along the smooth stone walls of the passage as he walked. The stone was worn and mellowed by time. This was the first castle he had possessed and it was a cherished symbol to him. It represented an end to struggle, to hun
ger and ridicule. Yet he did not really own it. His claim on this place was temporary at best.
The thought dawned on him with all the brilliance of a summer sun bounding over the horizon. What if his claim was based on inheritance? Or better still, dowry?
Savaric found his steps slowing as his mind turned it over, first this way, then that, probing for flaws, anticipating snags. Yes, it would work.
First he must marry her and then, once the marriage was indisputably consummated, he could announce her secret to the world.
Savaric began to smile.
Chapter Twelve
The summons to the great hall had been peremptory and anonymous. Word had come via Anna, the old woman who had spent her life cleaning the hall and keeping it spotless. She had tapped on Helena’s door and pushed it open enough to insert her head.
“They want you in the hall, my lady.”
Helena turned from the window that looked out over York to the great forest just over a mile to the south of the city walls. She could not have asked for a more appropriate view.
“Now?” she asked, puzzled. It was midafternoon. Who would want her at this time of the day?
“At once, they say.”
“Tell them I will attend presently.”
“Yes, my lady.” Anna withdrew and the heavy old door, black with age, shut slowly behind her.
Helena checked her gown to see if it was presentable enough. Who were “they”? There was only one way to find out. She straightened her skirts and made her way to the great hall.
John, Catherine and Hubert stood ranged by the fire. Savaric stood by one of the tall chairs lifted down from the head table dais. He was straight and still. Helena gave a quick curtsy to John. “You sent for me, Your Grace?” Even if he had not, it was necessary to acknowledge his presence.
“My dear Isobel.” John stepped away from the precisely arranged line of people and took her hand. He led her to the fire. Helena felt the warmth of the flames through her clothes, warming one side of her body.
John waved to Catherine, who brought over a goblet—one of the precious glass ones that had once been reserved only for the most exalted of occasions. Catherine held it out to John, who took it and offered it to Helena.
“Drink,” he encouraged her. He looked at the others. “All of you, drink.”
Helena watched as they all reached for goblets and lifted them. Even Savaric raised one to his lips. His eyes were trained on her. Quickly, Helena looked away and took a sip from her glass but barely let the liquid pass her lips. She had no appetite for it. Her whole body felt as tight as a drum and Helena recognized the reaction—low level fear, coiling the tension in her, preparing her. She had lived with this little fear once but it had been a long while since she had felt it. Why did her instincts call to her now?
Uneasy, Helena glanced at Savaric again. He smiled. It was a self-satisfied smile, one that caused fear to leap into her throat. Could it be…?
She looked back at John. “Is there a reason to celebrate, Your Grace? Such excellent wine and such beautiful goblets—surely they are to mark an occasion?”
“You are very perceptive, Isobel. I have been speaking with your sponsor, Sir Hubert, on behalf of Lord Savaric. We have just now reached a meeting of minds.”
The leaping flames in the fireplace radiated out against her skin, making one side of her body unbearably hot and the other deadly cold by contrast, but Helena couldn’t move. She was too busy dealing with the horrible implications of John’s speech. “M-my Lord?”
“You have no need to concern yourself with details, Isobel. I assure you Hubert has taken great care to protect your interests. You will be amply provided for. It is an excellent bargain all round.” John waved his hand at the hall. “As you have no doubt seen for yourself.”
“You will be mistress of a great household indeed.” Hubert’s voice was a pithless, whistling reed after John’s dramatic speech.
Helena looked at Savaric, pain grabbing her heart. No! It couldn’t be! They couldn’t do this!
John laughed. “She sees the way before we light it for her.” He took Helena’s hand and led her to Savaric “Savaric has offered a marriage proposal, which Hubert accepted on your behalf.” John placed her hand in Savaric’s. “Congratulations, Isobel. You are to become the wife of one of the best men in this country.”
Savaric’s hot, dry fingers closed around Helena’s. The long nails clicked and rubbed together and the sound they made reminded her insanely of the sound of crickets in summer. She shuddered violently and wrenched her hand from his.
“No!”
John laughed. “Come, come. You have had more than enough time to get used to the idea.”
Helena shook her head. “I have considered the idea and I have decided I will not marry Lord Savaric. Not ever.” She tried to keep her voice even, to hide the tremor.
Hubert spluttered. “But Isobel!”
John waved his hand at Hubert, an irritated signal to be silent. “This is not a time to play girlish games, Isobel. This is a serious offer of marriage. It is an excellent match. Do not insult us by refusing an arrangement we have worked hard to make profitable to all.”
“To you but not to me. I will not consider it.” Helena longed to cry out that she had already given her soul to another but it would not move them and if they knew who she had pledged herself to, hell’s hounds would not match them in their fury.
Hubert spluttered indignantly and Catherine lifted her hands in the air with a cry of frustration. Savaric’s face turned a deep red that emphasized the colorlessness of his skin.
“Silence!” John roared.
The room abruptly quieted.
John turned Helena to face him. “Reconsider, woman,” he said quietly. “I would not have you spurn my hard work without thought.”
Helena’s trembling caused her wine to slop over the edge of the glass. She was truly afraid now. She knew she was in the grip of forces that could crush her with their might. All she had to cling to was a whispered promise. She recalled the touch of Stephen’s lips to her hand, the feel of his heart under her palm. He had sworn a warrior’s oath. She knew he would die by it, if necessary. She could do no less.
Helena swallowed to clear her throat. “Your Grace knows I would never be so fickle as to throw away an opportunity such as you have arranged for me without reason.” Her voice wobbled but she could not prevent it this time. She glanced at Savaric, then back at John. “I will not marry him.”
“Oooh!” Catherine’s exclamation was pure frustration.
John turned to her. “I want her agreement. See to it.”
“But…” Hubert began, bewildered.
Catherine nodded and hurried to Helena’s side. She grabbed her arm in a painful pinch, using strength Helena never suspected she possessed. “Come,” Catherine said shortly. She wrenched her around, forcing Helena to follow.
The glass goblet jerked from Helena’s hand and smashed on the stone hearth, shattering with a sodden, muffled sound.
Catherine hurried Helena through the corridors to one of the cramped little rooms in the oldest part of the castle. It had rough stone walls, hewn by hand, the floor bare of either reed or tapestry. Catherine pushed her inside. The place was dusty and very, very cold.
“Catherine, what are you doing?” Helena demanded, glancing at the open embrasure. There was no glazing and no shutter. She saw blue sky beyond and nothing else.
“You ungrateful wretch!” Catherine hissed. She turned to the door and shouted “Anna! Anna! Come at once!” She turned back to Helena. “A perfectly fine marriage and you throw it back at us like last month’s fish!”
“A fine marriage? Catherine, would you marry him?”
“I was married at twelve to the man my parents chose for me. You would do well to do the same without protest.” Catherine reached for the clasp of her girdle, unclipping the heavy leather belt. It was decorated with polished amethysts.
Horror dawned. “Catheri
ne, what are you doing?”
“What do you think I’m doing?” Catherine replied calmly.
Anna pushed open the door and stepped inside. “Yes, m’lady?” she said, in her badly accented French.
“Get rid of her dress. Strip it off,” Catherine ordered.
“M’lady?” Anna asked, struggling to follow the words.
“Take…off…her…dress. Or I’ll whip you too!”
Anna looked at Helena, alarmed. “I cannot do that!” she wailed.
Catherine whipped out the belt. It snapped across Anna’s forearm. The old woman screeched and jumped backward. Tears sprang to her eyes and her mouth gaped as she stared at Catherine in stunned disbelief.
“The dress!” Catherine ordered.
Helena began to unlace the dress herself, unwilling to allow old Anna to suffer in her stead. “Don’t beat her!”
“You are a stupid, stupid girl,” Catherine said slowly. “By the time I leave this room, I will have you willing to marry Savaric. Eager for it.”
Helena stepped out of the dress, gave it to Anna and pushed her toward the door. “Go,” she said quietly in English. She looked at Catherine. “I will never agree to marry Savaric. Beat me all you want. It will gain you no benefit.”
“We will see. I raised three boys to adulthood. I can be very persuasive.”
The belt leapt out with a whistling snap.
* * * * *
“She’s been locked in that room for a day with nothing to eat or drink,” Hubert declared. “Every time she is asked whether she is ready to marry you, she says no and every time Catherine rewards her refusal with more blows. It has not changed Isobel’s mind. Is there any point in continuing this treatment?”
Savaric studied Hubert curiously. The man was actually wringing his hands, twisting his felt cap around like a washerwoman. The feather was quite ruined.
Heart of Vengeance Page 13