Once He Loves

by Sara Bennett

  Beyond the chamber, the noise from the hall was faint and far away. Other musicians were entertaining the crowd—the sound of flute and drums rose and fell—but they were not so successful as she and Mary had been, if the catcalls were anything to go by. Briar tried to smile, but her lips felt frozen.

  Where was her sense of triumph? There should be a wondrous sense of triumph after her two years of planning and plotting for this fateful day. Two years in which she and Mary and Jocelyn had lived like peasants—starving peasants at that!—barely staying alive. Two years in which they had been outcast from all they had loved and held dear. If it had not been for her ability to sing and Mary’s to play the harp, they would surely have perished long since. But they had survived, somehow. Each day had been a new quest to find food to eat and somewhere to sleep. The worst times had been when they were newly outcast, when she and Mary had been separated from Jocelyn and Odo, and Briar had felt as if she were truly alone.

  Revenge was the only thing that had kept her from perishing.

  And, of course, there was Mary.

  Briar loved her younger sister very much, but every morning when she awoke it was to the knowledge that Mary was her responsibility. Jocelyn had Odo, and therefore it fell to Briar to protect Mary. If there were ever any sacrifices to be made, then Briar made them without complaint. ’Twas the way it should be, the way it must be.

  Before they reached York, theirs had been a grim, day-to-day existence, and sometimes Briar had caught sight of her reflection in a puddle or a pond, and was shocked by her thin, stark appearance. The girl in the water had been a stranger. Aye, she had been thinner and paler—that was to be expected—but she had changed in essence, too. The dark emotions that had begun to burn in her eyes were very different from those that had brought her only smiles when her father was alive.

  Briar was the second daughter of Lord Richard Kenton, once one of the most powerful men in England, and a loyal subject to King William the Conqueror of England and Duke of Normandy. Richard Kenton, a minor baron in Normandy, had seen an opportunity for wealth and advancement when William had asked for men to follow him and fight for him in England.

  The lands of the newly named Kenton estate had been extensive, although the country was wild and strange. Briar had loved it. Her father had owned other estates—King William liked to spread the lands of his powerful barons about the countryside in case they grew too strong and set up small kingdoms of their own—but Kenton had been his favorite, too. Father and second daughter had shared that bond, despite a stepmama who was beautiful and demanding.

  And then everything had gone wrong.

  All because her father was wed to a woman whom Lord Radulf had once loved. And when the great Radulf had seen Anna, at his wedding ceremony to the Lady Lily in York, he wanted her again. Greedily, in the selfish manner of a child, wanted what he could not have. And when it was clear that he could not have her, he had her killed.

  Briar’s father had been beside himself with grief and rage, believing he knew the truth of the matter, and yet unable to convince the king, Radulf’s friend from childhood, that it was so. In his blind fury, Richard Kenton rebelled against William—and lost his lands, his wealth, and his army when Radulf won the battle. It was then that Briar’s father, distraught, abandoned by former friends and supporters, knowing he must face the traitor’s noose, took his own life.

  Perhaps he thought by doing so he would free his three daughters of the taint of his treason. That, despite his actions, they would be allowed to continue living the life to which they were accustomed. That his disgrace would stop with his death.

  But it was not to be.

  At the time that news of her father’s death came, Briar had been within weeks of making an advantageous marriage to their neighbor, Lord Filby. Filby had seemed smitten with her, and had sworn he wanted nothing more than to make her happy—her father would never have considered his suit if that were not the case, for he was a loving man when it came to his family. Briar had expected Filby to stand by her in her time of trouble, to marry her despite her father’s misfortunes, and to take care of her and Mary. It was simply the way in which things were done in the Kenton family, and Briar—sheltered, pampered—had imagined everyone else was the same.

  What an innocent she had been!

  Filby had soon ripped that innocence asunder and taught her the cold, harsh reality. He had replied to her desperate message with a blunt refusal. No, he would not ride to Castle Kenton, he would not enter the stronghold of a traitor, and as she was now a traitor by association, he would not marry her.

  Bewildered, believing her betrothed had somehow mistaken the matter or did not fully understand her dilemma, Briar had stated her intention of riding to Filby. Jocelyn and Odo were at Castle Kenton—Odo so ill he could not leave his chamber, and Jocelyn unable to see further than her husband’s health. Mary, who had never been asked to do more than smile and embroider, could only stare big-eyed at Briar. Neither of them were of any help.

  Briar had felt she had no choice. She had her mare saddled and rode out. To her relief Filby’s gate had been opened to allow her entry, but the man who granted her audience was very different from the besotted suitor who had sought her hand.

  He was cold. He was unfeeling. He was unmoved.

  When her pleading had no effect upon him, in a moment of wild desperation, Briar had offered him her body in exchange for his help. Surely, she had thought in some fevered part of her mind, once he had lain with her, loved her, he would not be able to desert her?

  The memory of those short moments with Filby still made Briar curl up and shrivel inside. For he had indeed taken what she offered him, but brutally, without conscience or consideration, and it had made not the slightest difference. Filby still abandoned her to her fate, and Briar had ridden home, even more broken than before.

  A fortnight later, Filby’s men had come to Castle Kenton to make a proclamation. Briar and Mary and Jocelyn had the choice of remaining at the castle and being taken prisoner, locked up until Filby decided what to do with them, or to leave and become formally known as outcasts. Briar, aware of what Filby would make of her if she stayed, chose the latter. Odo, who would once have given his life to protect them, was now unable even to feed himself, and Jocelyn was terrified of what would happen if she remained with him at Castle Kenton.

  They had left their past behind them.

  The world beyond Castle Kenton was harsh, a foreign land ruled by a Norman king. Without the safety provided by their money and power, they had to rely upon the conquered English folk to stay alive. There was kindness, more than Briar would have believed, but they could not beg forever. They must find an honest way to make money.

  It was Mary who had hid her little harp beneath her cloak before she left Castle Kenton, who took to playing for a coin here and there. And then Briar had begun to sing an accompaniment, and found her voice was much admired. One evening, as they sang and played, some of the king’s soldiers rode up. Jocelyn and Odo had fled one way, and Mary and Briar had fled the other. After that, the two younger sisters were alone.

  They had continued to travel, making their way as best they could, dressing as men for safety. After they reached York, they continued to play and sing, and became sought after. Accordingly, their talent had risen in value. They had begun to sing in the halls of those Norman families where once they might have been guests, and that was how they had been reunited with Jocelyn and Odo, now servants of Lord Shelborne.

  No one remembered them; no one wished to, Briar thought bitterly. Lord Kenton was long dead, but who would be foolish enough to claim an acquaintance with a traitor, dead or otherwise? It was almost like being invisible. She sang and entertained, was cheered and feted, but no one really saw her. Comments were made, secrets passed about, and all in her presence as if she were a deaf-mute. It amused her, and angered her, and fed her blind need for vengeance.

  For it was vengeance more than anything else that had
kept her alive these past months and years. The need to pay Radulf—the great Lord Radulf!—back for what he had done to them. For it was Radulf she blamed. Filby had his place in her black thoughts, but he was dead now, killed in an uprising on his lands. Briar could not revenge herself upon a dead man, and besides, Radulf was the true instigator of their downfall. And when she had heard he was to come to York, she had made her plan.

  It was a simple one, and turned on Radulf’s lady, Lily. For who had not heard of the special bond of love that existed between Radulf and his lady wife?

  Rumor also had it—so said the gossips in the halls where she sang—that Lily would not come north with him. She had been lately brought to bed of a son and was still weak from the birthing. Radulf would come by himself. It was logical that he would be lonely, vulnerable to the charms of a sympathetic woman, an easy target for seduction. It seemed only just that Radulf should fall by the same means he had used to bring about the destruction of Briar’s father. So Briar had decided then that she would take away that which he treasured most—the love and trust of his wife.

  He would not die, but as Briar well knew, there were worse things than dying.

  She had not realized just how easy it would be.

  Briar had known, as she had prepared to sing tonight, that Radulf would be in Lord Shelborne’s hall. He had been invited—Jocelyn had let slip to her that the messenger had gone out shortly after Radulf arrived in York. Of course he would come—a lonely man, missing his wife, with an opportunity to forget himself in the conversation of others? Aye, he would come.

  And she had known something of his appearance. Didn’t everyone know what the great Radulf, the King’s Sword, looked like? A big, dark man with a brooding gaze. A man who caught the eye and kept it with the mesmerizing quality of his presence.

  She had known him at once.

  As if it had been meant to be.

  Briar combed her fingers through the dark whorls of hair that formed a crucifix on the broad chest of the man beside her. Her body ached and tingled from his use of her—she felt betrayed by her own senses, but there would be time to consider that later. For now, she had what she wanted. Vengeance. How would the Lady Lily enjoy hearing such news? Aye, then she would know how it felt to be betrayed and abandoned, and Radulf would learn what it was to lose all and yet remain breathing.

  She had much about which to be pleased, and yet…

  Briar listened to the heavy thud of the man’s heartbeat beneath her cheek, and wondered again why she could not exult. Despite all, the sense of triumph eluded her. Why hadn’t the smoldering need for vengeance, that had begun to burn inside her the day her father died, turned to a clear, cleansing flame? If anything, the black smoke was even thicker and more acrid.

  She had won!

  Why then did she feel as if she had lost?

  A big hand covered hers, stilling her when she had begun to tug mindlessly at the hairs on his chest. “You mean to pluck me bald, demoiselle?” he asked her with quiet humor.

  Briar lifted her head. He was smiling, and as she gazed at him, she was once more puzzled by her fascination for a face which, taken feature by feature, was not all that fascinating. The broken nose and sharp, angular lines of cheekbones and jaw and brow. The wild, dark hair that was in desperate need of a comb. He was watching her, his black eyes brooding, expectant, secret.

  Suddenly Briar felt a senseless, almost unstoppable urge to confess to him what she had done. The words had already begun to thicken her tongue, but she gulped them back, terrified by her own lack of control.

  Remember who this is! Remember what he can do to you! Have you not learned well in the past two years that you can trust no one?

  Great men had no hearts, only cold ambition and self-interest. Witness what Radulf and Filby and the king had done to her family.

  And what of your father? Was he not a great man? And yet he loved you.

  That was true, he had loved her. He was also kind and generous, and see where it had gotten him?

  “Demoiselle?” His voice brushed over her skin, making her shiver. “You are deep in thought.”

  Should she tell him now? How she meant to destroy him? Was it wise to do so, when he had her alone? Best to wait, to choose her moment, to make sure of her own safety first. Men like Radulf, Briar had learned, would not think twice about removing an annoying obstacle in their path. Men like Radulf spoke sweet words, even while they were plotting evil deeds.

  “My lord—”

  He leaned over her, his mouth smiling, his eyes like dark stars. “’Tis best I tell you now, lady. I am no lord.”

  The timid knock on the door was an unwelcome interruption. He was no lord? What did he mean by that? Did he intend to try and hide his identity from her? Mayhap he was already planning when he could use her again…

  Her heart bumped, and Briar knew to her horror that she wanted him to.

  Yes, yes, if you lie with him again you will draw him in further! So deep that he will forget where he ends and you begin, until there is no escape.

  The thought was feverish. Briar did not trust herself. She wanted him again, aye, but were her reasons pure? From the moment she saw him in Lord Shelborne’s hall, her body had cried out to his in a manner that was as old as time. Was that vengeance? Was that revenge? Nay, surely ’twas lust and desire!

  “Jesu,” she whispered in anguish.

  Radulf had stiffened at the knock upon the door, and now he glanced at Briar with a frown that would have made a lesser woman flinch. He grasped her in one arm, reaching down with the other to the floor by the bed, where he had lain his sword.

  “Do not fret,” Briar managed, her throat dry. She tried for a smile and felt her mouth stretch unnaturally. “’Tis probably only a servant come to see whether we are in need of more wine….”

  The knock was repeated, louder this time. Not a servant then, thought Briar. A servant would never pound upon a door so vigorously. No, this fist sounded masculine, and large.

  “Ivo?” A deep voice, muffled by the wood. “Ivo de Vessey!”

  Briar had opened her mouth to reply that there was no Ivo de Vessey in here, when Radulf sat up. He ran his fingers down her arm, and then cupped her breast in a possessive fashion she wasn’t at all sure she liked, especially when her nipple perked up in instant response.

  “Aye, Sweyn?” shouted her tormentor. “What do you want? I warn you, you have chosen a most inconvenient time.”

  The door opened and the owner of the voice peered in. He was tall and fair, a handsome man Briar vaguely remembered seeing standing in the group beside Radulf, in the hall. Sweyn—was that his name?—raised a blond eyebrow as he took in the scene before him. Belatedly Briar ducked behind her lover, using him as a cover for her nakedness.

  Ivo smiled, enjoying feeling her warm body and her warm breath upon his bare back. A strand of her hair lay upon his hip, the curled end tickling his thigh. He twined it lazily about his finger, examining the smooth fineness of it.

  Sweyn was grinning at him, but Ivo was in no mood to put up with his friend’s humor.

  “Well?” he demanded in a surly tone.

  Ivo had no intention of leaving Briar just yet. Aye, his body was insatiable where she was concerned, but it was the manner in which he satisfied it that surprised him. Not just with a selfish need to take her, although he had enjoyed the taking very much. There was more to it. He had wanted it to last forever, and had brought her again and again to her fulfillment. He had found pleasure and pride in gazing into her hazel eyes as they darkened with desire, flared with surprise, then blurred with ecstasy.

  Aye, and she was as surprised by the situation as he. If Ivo was not mistaken, here was a woman who had not known much joy. Her unhappiness made a bond between them, more so than he had felt with any woman for a great many years. He didn’t know why she had brought him here, allowed him the use of her inexperienced body and showed him her passion, but he felt a longing to protect her, to keep her from har
m, to be her knight. Ivo was not one to believe in fate, but it seemed to him, as he lay with Briar in his arms, that their lives had come together for a reason, a purpose. And before this night was through, he meant to discover what it was.

  Unfortunately, Sweyn had other plans.

  “We are needed,” he said, the humor subdued to a spark in his blue eyes. “You know I wouldn’t have disturbed you otherwise, Ivo.”

  Ivo gave a sullen grunt, followed by a resigned nod of his head. “Aye, ’tis clear you are most upset, Sweyn. Go. I will meet you in the hall.”

  Sweyn chuckled at his friend’s display of bad humor, and closed the door.

  During his conversation, Ivo had been aware of Briar’s warm presence at his back. Now she was clinging to his shoulders, and her fingers dug into his flesh so hard that her nails were surely drawing blood. Was she so upset that he must leave her? The thought pleased him, and he was gentle as he eased himself away from her nails, and shifted his body on the bed, the better to see her.

  She was white, her hazel eyes enormous in her heart-shaped face, and her breasts were rising and falling deliciously fast. Ivo frowned; this was more than a small upset, far more.

  “Demoiselle,” he said carefully, “I must go. I am called away by my lord. But I swear to you that I will return—”

  “What did he call you? What is your name?” Her voice was low, almost a whisper.

  He frowned, puzzled, and reached to touch her cheek. She shook her head desperately, scooting away from him on the rumpled cushions and furs. What was wrong with her? This was beyond strange. The niggling sense of doubt grew within him, and Ivo’s frown blackened. ’Twas time they cut through this nonsense, and got to the heart of the matter—he had never been one for prevarication.

  He pushed aside the wild tangle of his hair with his black leather glove. “I am Ivo de Vessey,” he said with barely concealed impatience. “I am here in the service of Lord Radulf, to put down the skirmish on his northern borders. I was once a Norman knight, demoiselle, but am one no longer. Disgrace has tainted me. Now I fight for coin instead of glory. Is that introduction enough? If you require one after what has taken place in this bed tonight!”