by Sara Bennett
Briar opened her eyes.
Sometimes, even now, she still awoke and thought she was at Castle Kenton. That when she rose she could gaze out at the mist-sodden moors, and the day would stretch comfortably before her. That nothing had changed.
And then she would remember, and grieve all over again.
But this morning was different.
At first Briar didn’t understand why. Where had this sense of lightness come from? This sense of something new, of something anticipated.
Puzzled, she drew the curtain a little, and peered from her shadowy bed, set into the thick wall of the kitchen, out into the room itself. A young maid with tangled hair raked the burning coals from the oven, leaving it hot enough for the baking of the day’s batch of bread. Another girl kneaded the dough for the loaves, while at the same time keeping an uneasy eye on the big man who sat at the far end of the table, his shoulders hunched and his head bowed as if he were asleep.
Odo.
All was as it should be. She was curled up with Mary in the bed that was Jocelyn’s, because last night Jocelyn had insisted she and Mary remain here rather than walk home in the dark and the cold. And for once Briar had been too overcome to argue.
Her mind probed cautiously at memories of the scene in the bedchamber, finding pain and confusion, but acceptance, too. She knew now she would never be able to take the real Radulf to her bed—the idea sickened her, as if it were a betrayal. Mayhap it was. To do such a thing would go against her own strong sense of right and wrong. Was Jocelyn correct, did the end not always justify the means?
Has Ivo de Vessey made me understand this? Has he immersed himself so deeply within me, and in such a short time?
Briar remembered the way he had looked at her, so intense, as if he was seeing everything about her there was to see. Those black eyes of his had made her feel wrung out, invaded, turned upside down. As if he saw her, the real Briar. It was not a comfortable sensation.
Had he also read in her eyes the real reason she had taken him to that chamber?
Briar hoped not. He had been puzzled by her behavior at the end, but before that he had been well pleased. He had held her and called her angel. Aye, there was still a chance she could turn last night to her advantage, turn failure into success. Jocelyn was right. Mistake or not, Ivo de Vessey was Radulf’s man.
Ivo de Vessey could be the key that opened the door into Radulf’s world.
Was vengeance not entirely dead to her, then? Could she resurrect that all-consuming desire to make one man pay for their suffering? Briar had told Jocelyn last night that she had meant to see justice done for all of them, and so she had. Briar had been arrogant and single-minded enough to believe that what she was doing was important. Jocelyn may want to bury her head in the sand, put the past behind her, as she was so fond of saying, but Briar could not forgive. Radulf had wronged them, and so he should pay. Oh, not in the way she had meant him to pay last night. That was unthinkable. But she could use Ivo de Vessey, follow Jocelyn’s advice.
Make him crazy with lust for you? Make him want you?
The voice in her head was sly and knowing; Briar was grateful when Jocelyn noticed she was awake and interrupted it.
“You are feeling better?”
Jocelyn had come to stand beside her husband. Her wiry dark hair hung in a long plait down her slim back, her sharp blue gaze shifted from Briar to rest upon Odo’s bent head, and softened with love and devotion. Jocelyn was a striking woman, her features strong rather than pretty, except when she looked upon Odo—then she was beautiful.
“Aye, Jocelyn, I am better now.” Different, though, in a manner she was yet to explain to herself satisfactorily. But there was no need for Jocelyn to know that.
Her sister nodded and, brushing her fingers lightly on Odo’s shoulder as she passed, poured some milk from a jug into a wooden bowl. She brought the bowl over to Briar and handed it to her. Mary slept on, her dark lashes brushing her pale cheeks, her fingers curled like a child’s against her lips. At seventeen years, Mary was more than old enough to have been married and have children of her own—girls in their privileged world were often betrothed as babies. But Briar still thought of Mary as the little sister who must be cosseted; mayhap she always would.
“You seem more like your old self,” Jocelyn said, and then lowered her voice so the servants could not hear. “Are you still determined to go on with this foolishness?”
“’Tis not foolishness. This time the idea was yours, sister, and it was a good one.”
Jocelyn grinned like a young girl. “It was, wasn’t it?”
Briar’s eyes narrowed.
Jocelyn went on. “You needed your dark plot. It was what kept you alive, Briar. I know that. But ’tis true, I think the time has come for you to put it aside and get on with your life. Mayhap this Ivo de Vessey will help you to do that.”
Frustration and anger filled Briar. “My life is vengeance; ’tis what I live for!” she said. But even as she spoke the familiar words, the doubts were circling like birds of prey.
Beside her, Mary yawned and stretched, and turned over onto her back. She rubbed her eyes, her voice husky from sleep. “I dreamed I was home, Briar. And everything that has happened to us, that was the dream.”
“Oh, Mary,” whispered Briar, moisture stinging her eyes. Jesu, she had not cried so much in years. Irritated at her own lack of control over her emotions, she bit her lip and forced back the tears.
Jocelyn’s brisk voice dispelled the gloom. “I have milk for you to drink, and soon the bread will be baked. You can feast before you go.” As she spoke she set about pouring another, larger bowl of milk for Odo, setting it by the big man. Once he would have turned and smiled at his wife, taken her hand in his, kissed her fingers. Now he made no movement toward her, nor gave any sign that he even knew anyone else was in the room.
Briar remembered Odo from before, big and hearty, always with a smile on his face. He had stood by their father, and if he had not been so ill when Lord Kenton rebelled against the king, mayhap things would have turned out differently. Odo would never have let his father-by-marriage commit so hasty an act, or risk so much. Odo would have made him wait, until emotion had cooled, until any decision made could be made with a clear head. And then, if Lord Richard had still wanted to take such a grave step, then Odo would have led his army.
Aye, Odo had always been a good and loyal man. ’Twas a pity Jocelyn’s husband should have been reduced to this. Surely even death was preferable to being a broken shell without a mind? Although Briar did not think Jocelyn would agree—for Jocelyn, even this empty creature with Odo’s face and body was better than no husband at all.
“Will Lord Shelborne mind our feasting on his bread?” Mary asked.
Jocelyn shrugged and spoke with some of the old Kenton arrogance. “I care not what Lord Shelborne minds.”
Briar smiled.
Jocelyn ignored her and held the bowl of milk to Odo’s lips, murmuring encouragement to him as if he were a babe.
After Odo had been struck down by his illness, he had lost the ability to speak, nor did he understand what others said to him. And one side of his face had lost all movement, sagging like dead flesh, while the same side of his body no longer moved to his command but jerked and stuttered as if Odo were now a puppet with strings. Gradually body movement had returned, but his face remained fixed and his gaze empty; the Odo of old was gone.
Mary and Briar rose and washed their faces in the warm water provided. Then they dressed behind the screen stretched across the corner, smoothing their crumpled clothing as best they could before they pulled on their well-worn stockings and shoes. And all the time, the kitchen maids continued with their tasks, as if the Kenton sisters did not exist.
It was apt, thought Briar. Because in many ways it was true that they did not exist, not any longer. And that was why the past sometimes seemed like a dream to them all. Briar remembered the comfortable wealth of Castle Kenton, with its newly buil
t stone keep and strong wooden barricades, and before that, the house in Normandy where they had lived together. When she thought of those times, it was as if they had happened to someone else.
Her mother was even more of a dream. She had died when Briar was a child, shortly after Mary was born. Her father had remained alone, until he had wed Lady Anna, in Normandy. Briar had not known her stepmother well, but she had found her amusing company, and certainly she was very beautiful. Once they were in England, Anna and Richard had often been away in London at court, or else in York. Anna preferred gaiety and gossip to the isolation of Castle Kenton, where Briar and Mary had spent much of their time. Sometimes Jocelyn and Odo had stayed, too, but more often they were busy overseeing Richard’s estates. Their father had trusted Odo to stand in his shoes, while he himself kept his beautiful wife happy.
They had been privileged.
Why was it that one only realized the full extent of one’s good fortune when it was lost?
“Where were you last night?”
Mary was combing her long dark hair, but her curious gaze was fixed upon Briar.
“I was asked to sing privately.”
“Oh.” Mary frowned for a moment as if she would ask more questions, and then smiled wistfully instead. “You sing so beautifully, Briar. I once overheard it said that your voice could heal the sick.”
Briar laughed bitterly. “I am become a holy relic! Mayhap the desperate will take pilgrimages to my door.”
“You should be thankful for such a gift.” Mary sounded disapproving, and not at all like her usual meek self.
Briar looked at Mary. Now that she thought of it, Mary’s behavior had been odd recently. Mayhap there was something wrong? Mary was always so biddable and quiet that Briar hardly noticed her. Had she been too intent upon her own problems to notice Mary’s?
“I am thankful for it,” she said matter-of-factly. “It has helped to keep us alive.”
“Sometimes…” Mary hesitated, setting down her comb. “Sometimes, Briar, I think I do not do enough.”
Briar was surprised. “You play your harp, Mary.”
“But there must be more I can do! You and Jocelyn coddle me as if I were still a baby.”
“You are a baby to us,” Jocelyn retorted, mopping the milk from Odo’s gray-flecked beard while he continued to stare vacantly before him.
“If our father had not died, I would be wed now.”
Briar smiled grimly. “If our father had not died, we would all have been wed now, Mary.”
“Do you think you would have been happy with Filby?” Jocelyn asked her curiously. “Mayhap you would have had the good fortune never to have learned what he really was.”
“How could I not have? I would have grown to hate him, I think.”
“Well, at least you discovered the truth about him, before it was too late.”
“Not quite too late.”
Jocelyn looked stricken, but before she could answer, another of the maidservants came hurrying into the kitchen. It was young Grisel, her small round face almost wild. Her voice burst out in a high-pitched whine.
“There is a man.”
The sisters looked to each other, startled. Mary giggled, and covered her mouth with her hand. Jocelyn frowned. “Speak more slowly, Grisel.”
The maid took a deep breath. “There is a man.”
“And?”
“He demands to speak with Briar, with the songstress.”
“He wants to speak to me?” Briar ran nervous hands over her hair, still uncombed and hanging tangled down her back. “Did you tell him I was not here?”
The girl shifted from foot to foot. “I tried to tell him you were not within, but he said you were. He was so big and so stern…I was frightened to say him nay! And he had such eyes…I think he could read inside my head, lady.”
Briar felt the floor tip beneath her own feet.
“So you told him she was here.” Jocelyn answered for her, with evident disgust.
“Aye.” The girl mumbled it apologetically.
“And has he a name, this frightening man?” Jocelyn asked, glancing sharply at Briar.
Grisel nodded. “He says he is Ivo de Vessey, of Lord Radulf’s household.”
Briar feared her face betrayed her. He had come to see her! She felt very peculiar, as if she were made of colored glass—that precious stuff that some of York’s newly built churches displayed in their windows. It was beautiful, there was no doubt, but so easily broken. Briar wondered if she too might shatter with disappointment, if it turned out that Ivo de Vessey was here for some other, more prosaic purpose.
“Grisel, go and tell this man the songstress will see him. And then take him to the alcove off the hall. And bring him some wine.”
Grisel ducked a curtsy, and reluctantly retreated.
Briar snatched the comb from Mary and began to work on her hair, tugging through the painful knots with her usual stubborn determination. But her hands were trembling, and that made her angry.
“He has returned very quickly,” Jocelyn said. “Why do you think that is?
“How should I know?” Briar retorted.
Jocelyn gave her a little, knowing smile. “Mayhap he is caught in your spell already, Briar.”
“Is this the man you sang to last night?” Mary asked the question with such studied innocence that it gave Briar pause. There was a cunning gleam in Mary’s eyes.
For a brief moment, Briar wondered if her young sister was really as naïve as she seemed. And then she dismissed the doubt as ridiculous, and took Mary’s hands in hers. “I will go and see. Stay here and have something to break your fast. When I return, we can go home.”
Mary nodded, but Briar sensed her suspicion.
“Take care,” Jocelyn warned.
“Do not worry. I know what I am about.”
“Do you?” Jocelyn replied softly. “Every vixen will meet her match one day, Briar. Mayhap you have met your fox…”
Ivo paced back and forth in the alcove, his boots scattering wine-soaked straw left over from last night’s revelries. Where was she? He knew she was somewhere within this household, for last night he had put a guard on Lord Shelborne’s house to follow the singing sisters. Only they had never left. And so he had told the maidservant, who had tried to pretend she had never heard of Briar. The girl, already terrified at the sight of him, had crumbled like stale cheese before his determined questioning.
Where was she? Had she sneaked out through a back way? Was she even now running down York’s narrow lanes, trying to escape him? Didn’t she realize yet that she couldn’t? Ivo smiled to himself. She was his.
A slight sound outside the alcove drew his attention. Ivo turned to face her, the wolfpelt cloak settling about his shoulders. She was coming toward him, rumpled, her big hazel eyes sleepy and wary at the same time, her face pale and strained, her hair unbound about her shoulders. Something in his chest clenched, hard and painful, and he took a sharp breath.
The childhood memory was there, blurring the edges of the present. The little girl falling, cutting her cheek on the hound’s half-chewed bone, her family running in response to her cries. And he, young and gentle, yet to learn the harsh realities of being Miles’s brother, lifting her up. Earning her gratitude and her childish love. She had followed him about, to the amusement of all, until the day he left the Kenton household. And he had allowed it, perhaps because he missed his mother and his sister, and perhaps because he was a little in love with her himself.
She was still beautiful.
But now she was a grown woman, and he was a man. The innocence had gone. Aye, she was indeed a woman. Ivo almost groaned aloud, and his groin tightened instantly with lust, while his blood began to heat. It didn’t matter. Whatever she wanted from him, he would find some way to give it to her, without compromising his loyalty to Radulf and his integrity as a de Vessey. He would do it. And at the same time he would protect her from Lord Radulf, from the enemies of her father, even from herself.
Silently, Ivo swore it.
She had reached him. There were shadows under her eyes and her mouth was closed tight, but he could see a pulse jumping in her throat.
“Briar.”
Her name was like honey in his mouth.
Her gaze slid warily over his chain-mail tunic, the wolfpelt cloak tied over it, and the big sword strapped at his side. He had removed his helmet, leaving his head bare.
“You surprise me, de Vessey.” Her voice sounded cool and distant. “I thought never to see you again.”
“Why? Because you mistook me for another?”
She came even closer—unwillingly, he thought, but she was clearly determined not to let him know she was afraid. Her scent caught in his nostrils, adding to his yearning, and he had to force himself not to reach out and pull her against him, although his body throbbed with his need.
“I know you have secrets, Briar.”
Questions sped through her eyes. “My secrets are my concern.”
Now was the time to tell her, but while Ivo hesitated, she moved yet closer, and lifting one hand, rested it lightly upon his shoulder. Now what? When he simply stared down at her, she lifted her other hand and slid it behind his head, tugging. He bent lower, to accommodate her.
“Briar,” he tried again, but now it was a groan.
She pressed her mouth to his, her lips soft and warm. Ivo drew her into his arms, lifting her so that her feet came off the floor and her entire body was pressed against his. His tongue slid between her lips, his mouth almost rough in his passion. She clung to him, kissing him back, clearly enjoying being in his arms as much as he liked having her there.
Then she drew back, and pressed her hot face against his neck. “Do you want me?” she murmured into his skin.
He half laughed, half groaned, as he lowered her back to her feet. “What do you think?”
“Is that why you came, de Vessey, because you couldn’t stay away from me?”
Ivo wondered what the questions were for. Wasn’t it clear enough to her that he was burning up with desire for her? That he would do almost anything for a brush of her fingers on his fevered brow, a smile from her lush mouth? But mayhap not. She had seemed innocent in many ways, mayhap she was innocent in this, too. Or was she just cautious? Needing him to tell her that he really did care for her. She had been hurt—he had felt it last night, and felt their kinship because of it.