“Wait, wait,” the stout woman said quietly. “A moment, my lord.” She turned to the other woman, who hovered by Merriman as if she might dodge behind him. “Maryanne, go see to that broth we spoke of. The cook will have little enough to do now the feast is over.”
Maryanne skittered out the door. Merriman settled himself on a stool in front of the fire and watched it with deep interest. The stout woman turned back to Stephen.
“They beat her,” she said. It was clear this act outraged the woman, for her soft brown eyes flickered with indignant fury.
“Cicely,” Helena said quietly. “Please.”
“They beat her? Why?” Stephen demanded, feeling the birth of the same fury. He crouched by the bed, to look at Helena directly. “Elen, why?”
She smiled but the smile trembled and Stephen saw tears building in her eyes. “They want me to agree to marry Savaric.”
Swift, salt, black anger rose in him, for a moment blinding Stephen to all but the insatiable need to strike out against them, all of them. His head and heart swam with it.
“Don’t,” Helena said softly and Stephen felt her hand against his cheek. “Do not blame yourself. This was a risk you warned me against taking and I chose to ignore you.”
“Show me,” he said, when he thought he could speak in an even tone. “Show me what they did to you.”
“My lord!” Cicely said in an undertone, scandalized.
Stephen shook his head. “She is well chaperoned with both of you here. I want to see, to understand.”
“Cicely, help me up,” Helena said, trying to roll over.
Stephen took Helena’s shoulders and gently lifted her into a sitting position. Cicely gathered up the hem of the robe and lifted it to reveal Helena’s back, while preserving as much of her modesty as possible.
Stephen forgot his small amusement when he saw the cuts and welts. He drew in a sharp hiss of breath.
There were perhaps a dozen deep cuts, which looked to be healing already and he recalled how quickly the cut on Helena’s arm had healed. More alarming were the bruises and welts. They were deep purple, almost black, fading to an angry red in places. The welts stood out in sharp relief. He could even see the shape of the instrument that had done this thing—a lady’s girdle. In the flesh by Helena’s neck, he even saw the imprint of a square-shaped jewel. He had seen such a girdle before.
Catherine.
“I will see that woman called to account before this business is done,” he murmured.
Stephen had more than a little experience with bruises of this kind. They were more debilitating than cuts, which healed cleanly. Bruises and the blows that caused them reached far deeper into the body and could damage more than just skin. Helena had walked about this day pretending all was aright with her.
“My God,” he breathed.
Cicely lowered the gown. He saw a single tear roll down her cheek. It decided him. Stephen stood and bent over Helena, sliding his arm beneath her knees and around her back. “Come,” he said quietly. “I am taking you away from this.”
Cicely gasped.
“No!” Helena said sharply. As Stephen took her weight and his arm tightened around her shoulders, Helena groaned and her head dropped back, protest forgotten.
Stephen stepped away from the bed and came face to face with Cicely and Merriman, shoulders together, barring the door. Merriman pulled out a useful-looking knife.
“You’re going nowhere with our lady,” he said.
* * * * *
“She called him Stephen? You are sure of this?” Catherine glared at Maryanne, trying to cow the woman into truthfulness. That there was a man in Helena’s bedchamber was astonishing. That it was Stephen of Dinan was not quite the surprise it might have been since she had seen the green favor about Carlisle’s arm.
“Yes, ma’am. She said it very quietly but I heard.”
“He is still there? Now?”
The mousy maid shrugged. “When I left he was still there. Shall I call the guards?”
Catherine bit her lip, unsure of just how she could capitalize on this unexpected windfall. There must be a way she could use it but if she brought the guards, then her advantage would be completely lost. “No, don’t call the guards.” She went to her private chest and pulled from within a small bag of coins. She dropped them into Maryanne’s upturned hand.
“Thank you, my lady.” Maryanne bobbed a shallow curtsy.
“There is twice the amount we agreed upon.” Catherine glared at her again. “That is to pay you to keep this knowledge to yourself. Do we have an agreement?”
Maryanne nodded. “Yes, my lady.”
“Then go.”
Maryanne hurried out, the pouch already hidden away.
Catherine sank back into her chair, thinking hard. How to use this? There must be a way. Who would find the knowledge most useful? Upon whom would it have the greatest effect?
Whose plans would be ruined if Isobel’s secret lover was revealed?
Chapter Fifteen
“Who are you?” Stephen whispered, brushing back Helena’s hair. He had laid her upon the bed again, for his movements caused her pain.
While Merriman swore, Cicely bustled to the small worktable by the fire and began mixing lotions. Helena rolled onto her side, face white and eyes closed.
Stephen sank down beside the bed so his eyes were level with Helena’s. “Who are you to command such devotion from strangers? What is it you seek that drives you to subject yourself to this humility and pain?”
Helena’s eyes opened slowly. They were a thundery blue now, clouded with pain. “I have not yet betrayed myself then?”
“I have not probed for the truth.”
She smiled weakly. “It was your honor and honesty I admired that day. You have not disappointed me.”
Stephen could not help but kiss her temple, despite their audience.
Helena grasped his hand and held it close. Her hands were cold but her body burned. “You have thrice proved your trustworthiness to me, yet I have failed to give you that trust in return.”
“I would not demand it of you.”
“I willingly give it. You asked who I am. Shall I tell you?”
“Are you ready to face the consequences you spoke of when I asked you that question before?”
“The circumstances have changed. The usefulness of Isobel’s name is nearly at an end. It is time you learned the truth.”
Stephen felt his heart pick up speed. Despite the warnings that knowing Helena’s identity was dangerous to him, he had never really believed her. So why did this anxiety flood him now?
Helena’s hands tightened about his and Stephen realized he was not the only one to experience that fear. But her voice was low and steady. “My name is Helena—of York.”
He let the information settle in his mind. It did not seem so very alarming, after all. “You are from York. Where is the danger in that knowledge?”
“You have been away from the court. Your return to England from the crusade was delayed, so you do not know what that name means.”
An image of the desert and the high whistling of the wind leapt into Stephen’s mind. “Yes, I took longer to return than most.”
“This is the Lady Helena, daughter of the Earl of Wessex,” Cicely pronounced. “For three hundred years there has been a Saxon lord as our liege, here. Until now.”
Merriman spat into the fire, making it hiss.
Then, abruptly, shaking Stephen with their impact, the little clues and hints he had acquired over the last few weeks fell into place. He found himself drawing back, staring at Helena.
“You are the daughter of Wessex!” he said. “The traitor, the Saxon who defied the crown. My God!” Somehow, without willing it, Stephen was on his feet beside the bed.
Helena pushed herself up, struggling. “Do not omit any facts, Dinan. My father was also judged outside the law.” She waved her hand toward the fire. “For a year before his death he lived without hearth, with
out home.”
“This was your home.” That fact too, fell into place with shock. “That is why these people defend you. Why they know your name. They knew you when you were…” The truth was too awful to speak aloud.
“When I had a legal place here,” Helena supplied softly.
“My lady!” Cicely murmured. It was a warning. Why a warning?
“Let her speak,” Stephen said. “What could be more shocking or dangerous than this knowledge she has already given me?”
“I promised you all the truth and you shall have it.” Helena slid to the edge of the bed and rose, bringing herself directly before him.
Stephen recalled the night they had first met, when he had caught Helena indulging in thievery. He had admired her courage then. He admired it now, more than ever, for he knew better than most the sheer courage it took to speak an unwelcome truth. She had perceived his dismay—no, his horror—but still she would speak all of the truth.
Helena lifted her chin to look Stephen squarely in the eye. “My father was not the only member of my family declared outlaw by the king.”
“You were the other.” It wasn’t a guess. She had been preparing him for this all along, trying to soften the blow.
Helena nodded and then became still, awaiting Stephen’s response. Her tall figure was draped in a fine, white, loose bed gown, yet she seemed more regal than a queen in regalia.
Stephen was unable to prevent curlicues of anger writhing within him. Only a little at first but then, as the implications occurred to him, more swiftly. “You do not protest your innocence, or your father’s,” he pointed out coldly.
“You would not believe my claim. I have no proof.”
“And the man you seek, to revenge yourself?”
“He is the one responsible for my father’s murder and, I believe, for the accusations brought against him and the proof that condemned him.”
“You know that if you are caught here and your identity revealed, you will be executed?”
“The risk seems worth it,” Helena replied evenly.
“Worth what, Elen? Nothing is worth a life. Any life.”
“I judge restoring my father’s name worth one life at least.”
“Yours. Why? I do not understand!”
Her answer startled him. “As strange as the places you have walked through, Dinan, they do not compare with where I have been. Once you have been in the places I have, then maybe you would begin to understand.”
“As these people do?” He gestured to Merriman and Cicely, who watched unashamedly.
“They are Saxon.”
“Is that what lies at the heart of this, Elen? Saxon and Norman? That rift is long gone.”
“To Normans, perhaps, it may seem that way. But Normans fail to take into account that the majority of the nobility are Norman. Just as the peasants and serfs and freemen that populate the villages and sow the corn that makes their liege lord’s bread are Saxon. Just as I am Saxon.”
Her calm, quiet answers fed Stephen’s anger. “Do you know what you have done?” he asked her.
“I tried to warn you. I tried to explain as much as I could.”
Yes, she had. The knowledge burned. He had judged himself wiser than she was. More powerful than she was. He had not taken her warnings to heart. “I made the mistaken assumption that your secret could not possibly harm me,” Stephen said, bitterly.
“I would have stayed away if I could,” Helena confessed softly. “But you were there and I could not.”
I could not stay away, either. He did not welcome the thought, for it implied his own guilt. Instead Stephen let his anger grow, consuming the guilt and desperate sadness in him. “You are a Saxon and no longer titled.”
“Yes.”
“You are an outlaw.”
Helena swallowed. “Yes.”
“I could kill you now and no one would question my act. Do you know that?”
She nodded.
“My…alliance with you is treasonous.”
“It does not feel that way to me.”
“Dear God, Elen, I disobey the king by just standing here speaking to you! Did it not occur to you at any time that I might find that objectionable?”
Helena dropped her gaze and Stephen knew he had found the one chink in her armor of righteousness. “My lord, I could only think of the pleasure of unburdening my soul, of having a friendship that gave me joy and that I could rely upon.”
“You have put my loyalty to Richard in jeopardy!”
Helena lifted her head again. “For that, you have my sorrow.”
Stephen’s fury seemed to overwhelm him. He spun away from her, knowing for the first time in many years the old need to spill blood, to spend himself in fighting the enemy and bringing the enemy to his knees. But his enemy here was a woman he could not harm even if she held a knife to his heart and was pushing it home.
The exquisite torment was more than Stephen could bear. At all costs, he must find time and room to think. Not here, where all the dangers and risks weighed upon him and Elen’s unquenchable courage stood before him.
Stephen picked up his cloak and fumbled at his belt for the small pouch that always traveled with him. He threw it to Cicely. “Here. These will help with her wounds. Elen knows what to do with them.” He looked at Merriman. “I need your guidance again.”
“At once, my lord.” Merriman seemed relieved.
Stephen strode to the door but could not prevent himself from looking back at Helena. She spoke not a word and her gaze did not waver from his. Again he thought of a queen among courtiers. Saxon blood, indeed. Pure, undefiled Saxon royalty, born and bred to lead the people she said he could never understand.
“Come,” he said to Merriman and strode down the passage.
Stephen was out of the tunnel and back under the night sky before a terrible possibility occurred to him. Helena had cried out a protest when he had tried to take her away. She had not wanted to leave. Revealing her true identity to him would be the only certain way of ensuring he leave her there without protest.
Stephen nearly turned the horse around to head back to the shabby oak overlooking the river but a residue of anger held him. If that had indeed been her plan, Helena had found the results she wanted by using a dangerous tool, truth. One could not gainsay truth.
Saxon. Outlaw. Stripped of title, lands and holdings. Stripped of honor. Branded with the accusation of treason. She was all of these.
She was also Elen, of rare courage and spirit. Who else would risk the gallows to right a wrong? But why did she risk it?
* * * * *
“My lady, how could you risk it?” Cicely wailed, as Helena slowly put herself to bed again. She felt tired of mind and spirit, sapped of more strength than the simple weakness of body.
“He deserved the truth,” Helena answered Cicely.
“But he holds your life in his hands now. He could turn you over to Prince John.”
“He will not,” Helena assured her.
“But how do you know that?”
“He is a man of honor. He will not break that honor.”
“His loyalty lies with the king, he said. He counted that more highly than his honor.”
Helena remembered the touch of Stephen’s lips on her palm, the feel of his beating heart. “He will not betray me.”
“Not even to obey Richard?”
Helena bit her lip and turned away from Cicely, for that was a question she could not answer.
* * * * *
Savaric handed the woman a cup of the hot, scented wine the cook had left on his table and settled himself on his chair by the fire again.
“You have disturbed me, Lady Catherine and now we have seen to the amenities, I demand you speak your business and be gone. I have other affairs to attend to besides yours. The day already grows long.”
Catherine did not gasp or blush at Savaric’s direct speech. Instead she inclined her head, put her cup down on the end of the table and leaned toward him
. “I’d have you know, Savaric, that the Lady Isobel has a secret lover—one she invited into her bedchamber last night, right under your very nose.”
Savaric blinked. Isobel? “She dared bring another man here, in my own house?” Indignation grew in him. All the while Isobel had been carefully sidestepping his attentions, refusing his offer of marriage, she dallied with another? Savaric found himself on his feet, hands clenched by his sides. “This is intolerable! Under my own roof?”
Catherine’s mouth turned down. “Sit down, Savaric and listen to me. I do not impart this news merely to watch you express your injured pride. I do not find such displays at all interesting.”
Her words, her very manner, shocked him. His wounded pride? His pride was impervious to all! Yet this woman of no account dared to order him about…
Catherine sighed and rubbed her temple. “Savaric, if you must, by all means go off on a rampage and waste perfectly good information. This is news that you might better employ to your advantage if only you would contain yourself and sit down.” The last she snapped out.
His knees sagged and he found himself back in his chair. Savaric stared at Catherine. How had she managed it? She had ordered him about like a peasant and he had obeyed without thinking, for she had touched an unexpected truth within him. His pride was injured, shockingly so, by a facet of human affairs in which he had never considered himself to have a role.
I am jealous! Jealous of the unknown man the woman chose before him—a woman who held no meaning for him other than the titles and lands she brought to the marriage bed. The revelation was shocking but Savaric pulled himself together. “Speak. I will listen.”
“Thank you.” Catherine took a sip of her wine and rubbed her temple again. “There is more information I might give you but I think a fair exchange is only reasonable.”
“An exchange? Of what, Lady Catherine? Information?”
“I have all the information I need.”
“Perhaps not. Let me conclude the opening round of this exchange then, by offering a piece of my own information. She is not Lady Isobel, the woman we speak of. It is a name she has merely assumed.”
Heart of Vengeance Page 16