Heart of Vengeance

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  The pack was heavy. It slowed her down. Helena crossed the open square, aiming for the northern path to Tippany. She glanced to the south, where the riders would appear first. They could not be seen but she heard voices now and the jingle of metal.

  Close behind her, she heard Stephen.

  Even as Helena tried to push herself faster, his hand came down on her arm and she was halted. But he did not merely content himself with bringing her to a stop. Before she even had a chance to protest, he had scooped her up and over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Her pack slid off her arms and hit the ground with a muffled thud. Stephen dipped, one hand hooking around a strap. He was still running.

  She could not see where he headed. She heard the thud of his hands on wood, the creak of a door and suddenly they were in warm, thick darkness. The door they had just pushed past thudded shut with another tired creak.

  There was a startled low and a bleating that told her instantly that they were in some family’s outbuilding that housed their animals over winter.

  Stephen dropped her to the ground and Helena felt straw underfoot, confirming her guess. She heard his pack land next to her and the small hiss of a sword being drawn.

  “Quiet,” Stephen demanded. “We cannot be seen, Elen. They are looking for us.”

  “Impossible. You don’t know who they are.”

  “Nottingham’s men,” he said flatly. “I wager all I own on it.” His dark shape moved toward a chink in the rough paling that made up the walls and he peered through the small opening. “They were expecting us.”

  Helena found another chink in the wall and pushed past a pair of milling sheep to look out. She was just in time to see the riders burst into the village square, riding at full speed, careless of anyone who might be in their path.

  There were, indeed, several villagers there now. They had been drawn from their fields at the hint of trouble to come. They carried their implements with them—a ramshackle collection of rusty hoes and shovels and even an old war pike.

  Helena saw a flaming head of hair among them and gasped. “Stephen! There he is! Peter!”

  “Yes, I see him. Silence, Elen.”

  The riders came to a skidding halt barely a pace from the huddled villagers. At the head of the riders was a man with black hair and a sharply pointed beard. He wore no helmet and carried no shield. He drew himself upright and pointed to one of the men. “Him.”

  Two of the men climbed from their horses and went to the man their leader had selected. With an abruptness that shocked her, one of them knocked the man to the ground with a backhanded blow.

  A concerted shiver went through the villagers assembled behind him but no one moved toward the soldiers.

  “There is a woman among you, named Helena. She also goes by the name of Isobel. I want her. Bring her out.”

  Shock clamped an icy hand on Helena’s heart.

  “We know of no one by that name, my lord sheriff.”

  Stephen’s hand rested on Helena’s shoulder, calming her, reassuring her. She looked out again.

  So, this was the sheriff. He did not seem pleased with their response and pointed to another man. The sheriff’s men walked toward him. One of them lifted a mace.

  Cries of protest and fear came from the villagers. She felt Stephen’s hand clamp on her shoulder. He tried to pull her sideways. Then she realized that she was the one who pulled. Helena was trying to move toward the door and Stephen was holding her back. She clamped her jaw tightly, gritted her teeth and forced herself to watch.

  The guards reached their target but before they could administer their punishment, the red-headed Peter stepped in front of them. He carried a long handled hoe but held it down at his side, almost as if he had forgotten he carried it. He barred the soldiers’ way and stared at them in sullen silence. It was almost as if he dared them to push him aside.

  “No, Peter!” came an urgent entreaty from a woman in the crowd, who held out her hands.

  Helena tightened her fists, heart thudding with frantic speed. Each beat seemed to send its own separate wave of dizziness over her. The man she had tried to find for weeks stood barely ten paces away. He was in deadly peril and there was nothing she could do about it.

  Don’t let him be hurt!

  The soldiers glanced at the sheriff, who nodded briefly. They grinned and turned back to Peter and the one with the mace brought it swinging around toward Peter’s head.

  Too late, Peter tried to duck the blow. Too late. There was a sickening crack and the villagers all screamed.

  Helena uttered her own cry of dismay and horror but before it could be given full voice and betray them to the men outside, Stephen’s hand slapped over her mouth.

  Violent tremors shook Helena, as the horror and despair swept through her in hot and cold waves. Icy heat prickled her skin from toe to head, making her feel ill. Her mind chattered a repetitive denial, an anguished No! No! No!

  Slowly, as the reaction passed, Helena became aware of external matters. She was held tightly against Stephen. One hand still clamped on her mouth. She felt his heart hammering against her shoulder and he was whispering—had possibly been speaking all along but she only now heard him. “Peace, Elen, my sweet one. We must stay silent. If they hear us all will be lost and there are too many. I cannot fight them all. Peace. Silence, my dear, sweet warrior. Shhhh.”

  Helena’s breath and sanity returned in a rush. She sagged against Stephen’s arm with a tired sigh. She felt weak and shaky but Stephen held her up with tireless patience. His hand dropped from her mouth and smoothed her hair back over her shoulder. “You are…well, Elen?”

  The halting sentence was whispered in English. Helena sighed, touched by his concern and thoughtfulness. It was the first time he had ever attempted to speak English. He used it now to comfort her in her native language.

  Helena nodded, keeping silent as Stephen had instructed. His lips brushed her cheek.

  From outside came a bellowed order. “Search the place. Every last damned hovel. She’s here, somewhere.”

  Stephen stiffened and looked around the small building. He patted Helena’s arm reassuringly before moving to observe through a chink once more. After a moment, he returned to her. “They will not fail to search here. We must hide.”

  “Where?”

  “Under the hay.” He pointed to the boxed off corner of the room, where a pile as high as his chest had been gathered. “Stay face down and keep your arm like this.” He held his arm over his nose and eyes, about an inch or so away. “To leave room to breathe.”

  From outside came startled and frightened protests. The men did Nottingham’s bidding.

  Helena climbed over the waist-high barrier and dug her way into the hay. Stephen brought the two packs over and dumped them on top. “Go to the back,” he said and pointed to the wall. He began digging into the hay at the front and buried the two packs. Helena dug herself in close by the wall, until all but her head was covered. She formed a hollow in the straw beneath her face and glanced at Stephen.

  From the other side of the north wall came bumps and small cries of protest, muffled. A cottage adjoined this building. If the soldiers already searched next door, this one would be next.

  The packs were already out of sight. Stephen hollowed out a deep trench for himself. He paused a moment to reach out and cup Helena’s cheek and smile, then lay down and pulled the hay over the top of himself.

  She made sure he was properly hidden and then covered her head over too. Warm, thick, cloying darkness enfolded Helena. With her arm in front of her face, the straw did not tickle and irritate her nose and she was able to draw breath. She kept her breathing slow and steady.

  The door rattled.

  “What’s in here?” The question was snarled.

  “A shelter for our animals, gentle lord.”

  The door slammed open, making the poor structure tremble. Helena’s breath caught, her chest locked with fear.

  “He’s right. There’s naugh
t but a cow and two sheep.”

  “Wait! The hay bin.”

  From outside the building came a distant cry—not of protest or fear but anger. “Mother Mary! Someone is shooting arrows at us! Hurry up there.”

  Again from the square came the refined tones of the Sheriff, rough now with some hot emotion. “They’re in the forest. At the edge of the trees! Are you blind?”

  A question was spoken, inaudible to her.

  “Go into the blessed trees and find them, imbecile!”

  Robert. Robert and his men were drawing attention away from the village.

  From right next to the hay bin came another snarled command. “For the love of heaven, will you hurry up?”

  “Nearly done. Just want to check at the back.”

  There was a grunt of effort and Helena felt something push past her hip, under her, very close. Her fear turned icy as she realized what it was. The soldier had the straw by thrusting his sword through it.

  Because she was at the back of the box and the soldier was forced to lean far forward, his sword was pushed in almost horizontally. The tip slid right beneath her. If she had remained where she had first begun to dig, the thrust of the sword would have been perpendicular and inescapable.

  “Fire! Fire!!” came an alarmed cry from the square.

  “Hey!” There was a startled grunt from the edge of the box. Hay was being moved. “Look at this. Look!”

  “Can we just leave? They’re going to burn this place over the top of us if we don’t.”

  “But look. Look inside. It’s food. The crafty beggars have been squirreling food away.”

  “I don’t care!” came the answer. “I’m leaving.”

  “Right, right. I’m leaving too.”

  The door banged again.

  Then silence. Blessed, dark silence.

  “Elen!” It was a harsh whisper.

  She pushed hay aside and emerged gratefully from her nest. Stephen was sitting, examining a rent in his tunic under his arm. A sword had sheered through it neatly.

  “Did they touch you?” he asked.

  “No.” She looked at the empty depression where one of the packs had been. “They took the food!” Indignation flared in her. That food had been intended for the people of the village, not their tormentors.

  “Be thankful the food was there to distract them,” Stephen said, with philosophical gentleness.

  “And Robert, too,” she added. Then she remembered. “Fire! Something is on fire!”

  “I heard.” He rolled to the edge of the hay box, climbed out and returned to his chink in the wall. “They are leaving. Riding off toward the forest.”

  “Robert will evade them. He has had much practice.”

  “I’m sure.” Stephen’s tone was dry.

  She dug for the remaining pack of food and pulled it up. “If they are leaving, then we may be able to deliver this after all.” She hefted the pack and crossed to Stephen’s side. He took the pack from her, lifting it easily and dropped the straps over his shoulders.

  “Food is the least of their concerns right now.” He looked out again. “It is safe now. They’ve gone.”

  They opened the door slowly, checking that the last of the soldiers had indeed gone. Then Helena saw what Stephen had seen. One of the buildings on the north side of the square was a fiery shell. It was almost fully dark now and the flames lit up the square. It had been a cottage, she remembered. The villagers were not fighting the flames. There was no point. But they watched closely to ensure the flames did not spread to other buildings around the cottage.

  Then she saw the still shape lying in the middle of the square. A solitary figure knelt on the cold ground next to it. She crossed to the woman and touched her shoulder before crouching next to her.

  Peter was dead. Blood had spread from the great wound on his head in a small, dark pool on the ground. The woman held his hand. She had been weeping. Now she looked at Helena and Helena saw deep puzzlement in the woman’s eyes. “He only returned to make sure we had food. He did right by us. If he hadn’t, he would still be alive. I don’t understand. What does God want of us?”

  Stephen knelt on the other side of the body and examined it.

  Helena patted the woman’s shoulder again, feeling a helpless sadness well in her. “I don’t know,” she answered truthfully. “I wish I could tell you but I cannot.”

  Stephen shrugged off the pack and lifted it over Peter’s body to place it next to the woman. “For you,” he said in English.

  “Thank you,” she said and grasped the pack.

  Helena looked down at Peter’s body again. Her sorrow expanded in her chest, making it ache. She felt Stephen’s hand and looked up at him.

  He said something but Helena could make no sense of the words. She spoke aloud the thought in her mind, huge and overwhelming. “This is my fault.”

  Abruptly, his eyes blazed with anger. Stephen shook her. “No!” he said, with a low intensity that made her shrink back from him. “You are not to think that!”

  “But they were looking for me.”

  Stephen glanced toward the north end of the square, where most of the villagers were still occupied with the fire. “We must leave here. Now. Nottingham and his men will be back soon. We will talk later but for now I do not want you to think about this at all.”

  “How can I not think of it, when it is all I can feel?”

  “Later we will talk about it but for now I need you to be alert and ready for trouble and you will not be if you worry over this.”

  “But how can I stop thinking about it?”

  He reached out to pluck a piece of straw from her hair. “Do you know any verse, Elen? A song? Something from your childhood?”

  She stared at him, astonished. “Well, yes.”

  “Then say those words to yourself. Over and over again. Concentrate on what you are doing at that moment.” He smiled grimly. “Concentrate as if your life depended on it.”

  Her life did depend upon it, Helena realized. “This will work?” she asked doubtfully.

  “It worked for me,” he said simply. “In the desert, when thoughts of a welcome death plagued me, trying to convince me it would be easier to give up, lie down and rest forever.”

  Her mouth rounded in a silent “oh.”

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  London Bridge is falling down, falling down… The morbid little ditty about the Viking attack was all Helena could remember. She let her hand fall to her knife hilt and nodded. “I am ready.”

  * * * * *

  It had been a long-standing rule with Robert’s men to gather in the place where they were last together if by chance they were separated.

  Helena and Stephen found the deep gully just inside the tree line without incident. There was no one there, neither Nottingham’s men, nor Robert’s.

  They rested on the gentle slope and waited for Robert’s band to return. Throughout that time of enforced silence, Stephen held Helena’s hand in his, keeping her thoughts upon the situation as he had demanded. Danger was too close to allow her concentration to drift.

  Helena found pushing the sadness away became easier and she did not have to rely on the recollection of childhood chants as often, but she knew that once they returned to the camp, she would have to squarely face the blame for Ferndale’s latest disaster.

  * * * * *

  Savaric swept the table clear of cups and implements and pounded it with both fists in slow, heavy blows, beating out his frustration and anger.

  Nottingham had failed him. He had given the man one simple, precise command and he had failed. He had bleated excuses about uncooperative villagers, fire and more but it didn’t change the fact that he had not brought Isobel—Helena—back to face the king’s justice. Justice that would stop her from ever interfering with Savaric’s plans again.

  His fists grew still. Savaric slid them across the table until his whole upper body rested on the surface. The roughly dressed wood scratched his cheek.


  John was giving up and running back to his mother’s protection. Richard was organizing a peace that would bring him back to England to occupy the throne. His return would signal the end of any influence Savaric had in the court.

  Time was running out.

  Savaric recalled another schemer for whom time was also running out. Catherine. What had she said about Richard? Savaric frowned, flesh scraping the tabletop. Ah, yes. You cannot deny you would find it convenient if Richard were to die in Normandy, fighting Phillip. All it would take was a stray arrow, or a careless misstep.

  Savaric straightened, mind whirling, gathering odd facts, useful information. The few times he had ever been forced to stay and listen to crusaders sharing war stories, he had learned of a craft invented by the Saracens. The Saracens had given it a name, one that invoked the stealth and effectiveness of the technique—Assassins.

  Savaric smiled, happy once more. He went to the door, wrenched it open and pointed to the guard there. “You.”

  “My lord?” The guard snapped to attention.

  “In the bowels of this place there are two Frenchmen, the ones caught stealing grain at the markets.”

  “Yes, my lord. I know the pair you mean.”

  “Fetch them. I want to talk to them.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The guard saluted and hurried down the corridor.

  “Have them washed before I see them!” Savaric called after him. He shut the door, feeling a centered glow of satisfaction curling through him once more.

  Helena and the king could not be permitted to meet. If he could not halt Helena, then he must stop the king instead.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It took two and a half days to return to Robert’s winter camp. During that time, Stephen was isolated from the others because of his weak English, which he welcomed just now. Elen would not openly come to him, although he continued to watch her carefully to ensure she did not let her attention wane from whatever task was at hand. His solitary state gave him time to think, time he desperately needed.

  Robert and Elen had been right. His visit to Ferndale had opened his eyes in a way he had not anticipated. He understood now Elen’s constant battle to help these people. He understood why she continued to search for her father’s killer, despite the enormous complications it created, in spite of Savaric and Catherine and anyone else who opposed her including, once upon a time, Stephen himself. She had looked him in the eye and defied the gallows.