John rose and held out his hand. “Come, maiden of the day. You have a purse to give.”
Helena stood and paused, feeling herself sway. The water she had drunk sat hard in her stomach and she swallowed back a sickly feeling.
“Now!” John snapped.
Helena put her hand in his and John escorted her to the barrier. With every step she took the ground tilted and pitched.
Carlisle reached the barrier just as they did. Helena desperately clutched the top of the barrier as the warhorse in front of her pranced and blew. All that quick restlessness made her feel worse. She shivered.
John looked up at the rider. “Well, Carlisle, are you going to remove your helmet and receive your prize?”
Despite the movements of the horse, the rider sat as he might upon a chair, relaxed and at ease. “As much as I would like to receive the purse from such fair hands as the Lady Isobel’s, I regret I must decline.”
The man’s voice seemed washed out and distant to Helena. She dropped her gaze to the barrier so the horse’s motion wouldn’t unsettle her any further. She swallowed convulsively. The urge to sit down, or better still, lie down, was building.
“If it pleases Your Grace, I would request the purse be split among the other knights.”
“You did not fight for the purse today?”
“I fought for the honor of it and to see for myself this beauty men speak of with baited breath.”
“Isn’t eyeing young beauties a bygone pastime for you, Carlisle?” John asked jovially.
There was silence for a moment. “You forget, Your Grace, I still have sons at home whose futures I must consider.”
“Ah, yes.” John put his hand on Helena’s, the one which clutched the barrier. “Isobel, my dear, be so kind as to step out where Carlisle can see you without obstruction.”
As Helena pushed her feet into moving, John continued. “I’d look well and swiftly, Carlisle. The Lady Isobel has a fat dowry and winning ways.”
Helena forced herself to take the dozen or so steps that would bring her around the barrier to the warrior’s right side, where his shield would not obstruct his view.
“Look up, Isobel. Let him see your face,” John commanded.
She looked up, not seeing anything but russet leather, slashed and creased from hours of fighting. Her need to lie down was now an imperative demand but she kept her gaze up as commanded. The man wore a bandage around his arm. No, not a bandage. It was a favor. A lady’s favor. But instead of having it tucked in so the material would flutter and declare itself, he had tied it like a bandage around his arm. To keep it out of the way? It did not seem to be very substantial. Something green, gauzy…
My veil! But…but…Stephen. He is here, he has come…
Helena realized she had disobeyed John by dropping her gaze when she saw the ground rushing up to meet her. Then she saw no more.
* * * * *
Catherine rushed forward when Isobel collapsed onto the trampled ground at Carlisle’s horse’s hooves, hurrying around the barrier to crouch beside her.
“What ails her?” Carlisle demanded.
John stepped to her side. “Lady Catherine?”
“It is nothing. Women’s vapors.” She looked up at Carlisle and smiled. “You know how delicate we can sometimes be.”
John laughed up at Carlisle. “The excitement, man. You see what your powerful charm has done to her? I wonder if I dare let your sons near her!”
“Does the woman need assistance?” Carlisle demanded.
Catherine spoke quickly. “I can provide all the assistance she needs, kind sir. Thank you for your chivalrous offer.”
“Indeed,” John said, picking up her cue. “You are most generous in your concern but there is no need to delay a return to your lodgings to rest and recover from your heroic efforts today. Please go about your business. I will see to your request to share the purse among the others.”
Catherine kept her gaze upon Isobel but felt the man’s hesitation without looking. After a long moment, he said stiffly, “Very well, then. I bid you good day, Your Grace, Lady Catherine.”
The use of her name alerted Catherine. She looked up. “How do you know who I am?” she demanded.
The helmeted warrior inclined his head toward John. “His Grace called you by name.”
She saw he wore a bandage around his arm. An oddly colored one. Green. It looked too delicate for such service. It would better suit a lady’s costume.
Her breath caught. Or a veil!
Catherine glanced at Isobel before her surprise should convey itself and listened as the warrior’s horse galloped away.
John touched her shoulder. “Get her out of here. Give her food, aid, whatever it takes to get her on her feet. We have a night of feasting and dancing to get through yet.”
* * * * *
Ranulf waited inside a clump of trees that bordered the tourney fields, as arranged. He had consented to act as Stephen’s second for this one extraordinary day. As Stephen came to a turf-flying stop and slid from the horse in one swift motion, Ranulf grabbed the bridle and brought the horse under control.
Stephen whirled back toward the gallery, pulling off his helmet. He dropped his borrowed shield. There were people all around Helena now, lifting her.
“I have to go to her,” he said. “God knows what they’ve done to her!”
“You cannot, my lord. You know that better than I.”
“But to drop like that. Did you see it?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“I should never have left her.”
“You did what you must, my lord. Would you have trailed them to York and brought John’s wrath upon you both?”
Ranulf’s calm responses dampened the white hot war within him. Stephen watched as Helena’s limp body was carried to a nearby wagon and placed in it and then turned and rested his forehead against his horse’s flank.
“You have done all you can, my lord,” Ranulf said quietly. “She knows you are here now. You have kept your oath. If she needs you, she will send word.”
“What if she cannot send word? What then?”
Ranulf was silent.
Stephen looked up at him. “You have always had the answers I needed before, Ranulf. Now you fail me?”
Ranulf dropped his gaze.
Stephen sighed. “In such foreign territory as these northern lands, I cannot depend upon you knowing some manservant or other, I suppose.”
Ranulf looked up sharply, eyes wide. “Actually, my lord…”
Chapter Fourteen
Warmth. Darkness. Blessed peace. Helena lay cocooned in their supporting web where nothing could touch her. The respite from worries, hurt and fear was a haven she was reluctant to leave, even though sounds and sensations were bringing her back into the world. The warmth was generated by bed clothing, the darkness by closed shutters or drapes around the bed. The peace she had enjoyed did not exist, for now Helena heard quiet whispers, the crackle of a fire nearby, the pouring of water or some other liquid into metal.
Her senses coaxed thus far into life, Helena found other feelings and emotions returning. Not knowing how much time had passed bothered her. Just a moment ago she had been falling toward the ground, in broad daylight. Now she was in a bed, presumably back in the castle at York.
Stephen!
The memory returned with the urgency of a battle cry and Helena tried to rise. Ferocious pain shot through her back. She cried out and fell to the mattress with a gasp.
“Heaven’s above, she’s awake! Quick, girl, go get the Lord Savaric.”
The words were English and the voice a familiar one. Helena lay on her stomach, face turned into the mattress so she could not see the speaker. It was not Anna but the voice was comforting.
The woman spoke again. “There now, child, don’t you be getting up. Not ’til you be good and ready.”
“Cicely?” Helena whispered.
“Hush now! How’d the Lady Isobel be in the way of knowing my
name?” She felt the woman’s hand on her hair, brushing back the locks from her face with the gentleness of a mother. “Oh, child, ye should never have returned!”
“I had to.”
“Aye, you’re as stubborn as your father ever was, God rest his soul.” Cicely patted her shoulder. “It’s as well I returned to my duties early, before this got much further.”
Helena found herself smiling into the mattress. Cicely had always looked out for her but facing down John or Savaric would be like a rooster facing down a trained hawk. Yet Cicely had outmaneuvered opponents just as skillful before this. There was a comfort in that.
“Here I am, returned to the castle,” Cicely continued, “and look at what chaos greets me! A tourney called and held so fast ’tis a wonder there were any knights on hand to fight it. Savaric returned unexpectedly to the castle, with nothing less than his Grace, the Count of Mortaine in tow. And you…”
There was a warning scurry of footsteps beyond the chamber door and the murmur of voices. The door opened and the voices became clear. Savaric’s rasping tones rose above them all.
“She wakes, Madam?” he demanded.
“Aye, my lord,” Cicely responded with remarkable calm.
“Has she spoken yet?”
“Not so you’d make sense of it, my lord.”
Helena caught her breath. Savaric spoke English! Spoke it like one born to the tongue. He did not mangle it like a Norman would. She heard him approach the bed. “Do you hear me, Isobel?” He had switched to French.
Helena remained still and kept her breathing even.
“I remind you of our bargain. Tomorrow I want you in the great hall, in front of John. Do not think such weakness as this will make me relent.”
“My lord, you’ll be lucky if the lady is even sitting up by the morrow,” Cicely asserted in English, “let alone able to make it all the way to the great hall.”
“Her wounds are healing, you said.”
“Aye, the cuts to her back are mending nicely but she’s been without food for two days, I’ve been told and left to freeze in the north wing for a night. I speak nothing of the demands made upon her today. They all have taken their toll.”
There was a long silence. “You’re proclaimed a healer, Cicely. Heal her!” Frustration hissed in every word.
“I will do my best, as always,” Cicely said placidly.
Helena heard the door close. Savaric had gone. Her relief was immeasurable and accompanied her into sleep.
* * * * *
When next she woke, Cicely was still by her side but she had company she did not trust, for she spoke French.
The woman assisting in cleansing Helena’s back was, by her voice, a stranger. Together they pulled back the bed furs and Cicely gently lifted the robe Helena wore.
“God Almighty!” the woman exclaimed.
“Hush, Maryanne! Help me. Pass that cloth. No, the one soaking in the bowl. Wring it first.”
A warm, wet cloth touched her back. The touch was soothing. The sharp slivers of pain that had plagued her with every movement after Catherine’s beating had subsided. Helena was left with a dull ache that flared to a cramping pain only when she tried to flex her back. She did not wince now when the cloth was laid against the wounds. Although she could not see them, Helena knew they had started to heal, just as Cicely had told Savaric.
“She does not cry out,” Maryanne murmured.
“Poor woman has probably passed out with the pain of it,” Cicely said. In French she added, “Does this hurt, my lady?”
Helena frowned into the cushion Cicely had provided. It seemed Cicely wanted to hide just how well her wounds were healed. Did she plan to delay Helena’s appearance in the great hall?
“See?” Cicely said in English. “The lass has fainted away.”
“Just as well. Stupid thing! Fancy putting up with all this just to refuse a marriage bargain.”
“You know nothing about it but what you have seen, Maryanne. You are in no position to judge.”
“What I’ve seen is enough! She could be the lady of this castle, yet she refuses!”
“Mayhap for good reason.”
“Mayhap because Savaric is not to her taste. I seen the way she looked at him, when she figured out they was to marry. Her face went all white. But Lord Almighty, to be mistress of a great castle like this!”
“Pass me that jar of ointment,” Cicely said calmly.
Helena felt the cool ointment spread over her back, bringing sweet relief.
“Mayhap she has higher ambitions, hmmm?” Maryanne murmured.
“Perhaps.” Cicely’s voice was low.
“They’ll beat them out of her,” Maryanne judged. “I’ve seen the way of it before. They’ll keep at her and at her until she gives up. With John wanting this match, they won’t stop until she’s willing. Or dead.”
* * * * *
If York was ever to fall into enemy hands, Stephen thought, it would surely fall because of treachery within. The strongest walls could not withstand betrayal. Or, to be accurate, he mused, looking at the rough stone walls that crowded his shoulders, intrusion from beneath. For they were far beneath the ground—deep enough to reach under the river itself, Merriman had assured him. The tunnel they traversed was hewn out of living rock. It smelled damp and disused.
A few paces ahead, the man Ranulf had introduced to him simply as Merriman walked with a brightly burning torch. He had spoken little since he had appeared out of the night, save to give curt instructions for silence, or to watch a step. He had shown Stephen into the opening of the tunnel, which emerged from beneath an oak tree that grew right on the very edge of a sharp embankment on the other side of the river from the city walls. Merriman had unlocked the small, hidden portal and glanced at Stephen. “In times of siege, you understand?”
Stephen nodded. This was a bolt-hole, for when running was the only option.
For a little time now the tunnel had sloped gently upward. Ahead, Ranulf’s torch picked out regular shapes in the walls. The walls themselves smoothed out. Stonework. They had reached the roots of the castle.
Another door, larger this time, black with age and moisture, barred their way. Merriman reached for another key, slipped it into the lock and tried to turn it. After two such attempts, he turned to Stephen. “My lord?”
Stephen put his weight on the key. The mechanism revolved with a rusty shriek. He put his shoulder to the door and shoved. It opened reluctantly. Dust and debris pattered around him from the lintel. The hinges gave a mournful squeal.
Stephen stepped through and looked around. This was the castle proper but the room looked abandoned.
Merriman followed him and turned back to the door. “If I can impose upon you, my lord?” he whispered.
Stephen shouldered the door closed and obliged Merriman by inserting and turning the key. Merriman accepted the key back and held up his torch. The room stretched for as far as the eye could see. The ground was uneven, natural earth, rocky and dangerous in this dank, dark place. He heard the scurrying of small creatures.
“Where?” Stephen asked shortly.
Merriman stepped forward confidently, leading Stephen through the man-made cave. Shortly his torchlight reached far enough to reveal a gaping mouth in the rough wall ahead, with regular shapes at the foot of it. Steps.
They climbed, Merriman’s torch fluttering in an unexpected breeze, up into a cellar proper, with regular walls and flagstone floor. Still, moisture dripped incessantly. Hidden claws scurried away at their approach.
More steps. Merriman carefully extinguished the torch and they climbed the last few risers in total darkness. Stephen saw the chink of light as Merriman opened the door. It was dazzling after the dimness they had traversed.
Merriman blocked a little of the light as he peered through the crack, checking for observers and then opened the door wide and hurried Stephen through.
They emerged in a wide corridor lit with sconces roughly every ten paces. “This
way, sir,” Merriman murmured. He removed his cloak and bundled it up in his arms.
Stephen was soon lost as Merriman led him through corridor after corridor. The only thing he was certain of was that they climbed two flights of stairs within the main building that housed the great hall. He wasn’t sure if Merriman led him in concentric circles just to confuse him, or to avoid the usual inhabitants of the castle. Certainly he could not afford to come face to face with either Savaric or John, or any of their retinue, who would recognize Stephen on sight.
At last Merriman paused outside a door and leaned close to its beams. He tapped softly.
The door opened a crack and a single eye looked out. It took in both Merriman and Stephen and then disappeared. The door opened just enough for them to slip inside.
A stout, broad-faced woman with big, brown, doe eyes stood with her hands on her ample hips, plainly furious. Behind her hovered another maidservant, eyes wide and frightened. The first woman shot a stream of invective at Merriman, in English but in a whisper. Her finger lifted and pointed at Stephen.
Merriman answered in kind. She fell silent, studying Stephen but he did not linger for her opinion. He moved to the great bed. Beneath the furs was a huddled mass.
Heart beating hard, Stephen reached for the covers to reveal the occupant. The stout woman was instantly at his side. She whispered a word and then added, “No, wait,” in French. She pulled back the covers and leaned close. “Helena,” she whispered. “See who is here.”
The use of her name, her real name, shocked Stephen. He glanced at the woman again, sharply, but she was not looking at him. She pulled the covers back farther to reveal the mass of Helena’s hair. She lay on her stomach. She turned to gaze at them. Her glorious blue eyes fell on Stephen and widened.
“Stephen!” Helena’s voice emerged as a dry croak. She tried to sit up and fell back with a muffled groan.
Alarmed, Stephen reached for the covers. “What is it?” he demanded. “Are you injured?”
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