by Sara Bennett
Aye, she had enjoyed what he did to her. In her secret heart, she wanted him to do it again. But at what cost? Would it be too high? And what if, in the end, she wasn’t able to separate her mind from her senses? If she wasn’t able to remain cold and distant from him, her mind free from the contamination of his kisses, how could she do what she had sworn to?
Was it really possible to give him her body, and take his, and then forget him?
When her stepmother had died, and then her father, when Filby had taken her, Briar had drawn on her cloak of vengeance. She could not have survived else. But Ivo de Vessey had come, and he had rent and torn that cloak, and now the cold breeze of doubt was assailing her. She had begun to wonder if there really was nothing more to her life than this weighty task she had set herself. And she had begun to wonder if she really was the sort of woman who could use a man for her own ends, and then abandon him.
I have my secrets, too, demoiselle.
How had he been hurt? His hand, always covered—what had happened to it? What lay behind that dark and brooding gaze? She wanted to know; the need was as fierce within her as her body’s need for his. She wanted him, and she understood that that want was not going to go away easily.
For the first time in a very long time, Briar was living in the present.
And it hurt.
The rain increased, drumming down upon them. The storm closed over York like Ivo’s mysterious black glove, thunder muttering, lightning slashing across the leaden sky. King William’s second castle rose like a gloomy warning on its motte, on the other side of the Ouse. Along either side of the river, near the wooden bridge, were the staithes, where the ships went on loading and unloading their cargoes in the rain. Smoke billowed from the roof of a small hospice, a shelter for the poor and homeless.
Thankfully Briar and Mary were no longer classed among them.
Home, for them, was one of a cluster of ancient and crumbling buildings that hugged the very edges of the River Ouse, beyond the busy staithes. These dwellings were relics of the days when the Vikings ruled here and called it Jorvik. Many buildings in York had been abandoned or burned through William’s determination to occupy it; and many were being rebuilt. But areas like this old Viking outpost would never be reoccupied.
The Ouse had turned into an angry rush of gray water, winding its way down to the deeper places. The wasted houses looked closer to collapse than ever, roofs dipping, blackened timbers bulging. The place looked so grim that no one would ever have thought to look for two women there.
But inside their chosen shelter, it was warm and dry, and they had done their best to make it their own. The oak beams in the walls were sound, and where the roof sagged, they had found a solid support to prop under it. This particular dwelling was larger than the rest; mayhap it had once been the home of a leader or a Viking prince—even tall Odo was able to stand upright within it. It bespoke of the Kenton sisters’ inborn arrogance that they would chose the largest and grandest hovel for themselves.
Briar hurried to the hearth, and finding a spark among the coals, carefully fed it into a blaze of heat. Soon her face was pink and shining with sweat, and she and Mary stripped off their sodden clothing and hung them by the fire to dry. They wrapped themselves in blankets, and Briar found some of the bread Jocelyn had given them the day before while Mary poured water to drink.
It was a poor sort of meal, but they did not complain. They had long ago learned to be grateful for what they had. There had been many days after their father died and they had been outcast by Filby, when they hadn’t eaten. At the memory of her betrothed, Briar found a spark of her own—a reminder of her burning hatred. Filby had once kissed her fingers and swore his undying love to her, but it had been all lies.
Nothing was real.
No one could be trusted.
How could she ever place her life in the hands of a man again, knowing of what they were capable? How could she believe Ivo when he promised her peace and safety? Surely ’twas better not to take the risk?
A knock on the door heralded Jocelyn and Odo.
“How cozy it is in here! Odo, see how warm it is.”
Jocelyn led her husband gently into the room, settling him by the fire, still speaking to him as if he understood every word she said. Odo stared blankly before him, the ruined side of his face immobile, the red flames coloring his graying hair and pale eyes. His hair had begun to go gray after he was struck down with his illness, now it was almost all gray, and he looked haggard and far older than his years. How much longer could he go on like this, even with Jocelyn’s loving care?
“Sister, you should not come out in such weather!” Mary scolded her, hurrying to take Jocelyn’s sodden cloak.
Jocelyn smiled and shook the raindrops from her hair. “Why should I be afraid of a little rain? Besides, I came because I had something to say.”
Her glance to Briar was a warning, and Briar groaned inside. She knew what her sister was going to say before she even said it.
“Ivo de Vessey came to Lord Shelborne’s home to ask questions about you.”
“You are too late,” Briar retorted. “He found us at the market.”
Jocelyn’s eyes narrowed. “And?”
“He—” She glanced at Mary and stopped.
Mary sighed loudly and rose to her feet. “Something I must not hear? Are my seventeen-year-old ears so innocent that they cannot be sullied? Oh, never mind! I will go and fetch more wood from the pile outside. But do not be too long in your gossip; it is cold out there and I do not want to get soaked again.”
When she had gone, with much muttering, the two sisters exchanged a look.
“What ails her?” asked Jocelyn. “’Tis not like Mary to speak so.”
“I know not. She has been strange. Not herself at all. I wonder if she is catching a chill.”
“Then tell me quickly, so that she can come back into the warm,” Jocelyn demanded.
“He is smitten, I think. At least…he wants me, but he is cautious. He has secrets of his own, so he will not pry too deeply into mine in case he has to tell me his.”
“So neither of you trusts the other,” Jocelyn mocked. “Not quite true love.”
Briar’s eyes flashed. “Who said aught about love? This is a matter of our usefulness to each other, that is all.”
Jocelyn looked like she would like to argue, but bit the words back. “When will you meet him again?”
“I know not.”
“You have caught your man, Briar, but methinks he might be more than you can handle.”
“We shall see.” Briar hid her doubts beneath a confident exterior.
Just then Mary opened the door, her face sullen, raindrops glittering like pearls in her dark hair. She dumped her armful of wood by the fire and, ignoring her sisters, set about rebuilding the blaze. Jocelyn rose to help her, speaking softly, teasing Mary to smile back, and then to laugh.
Briar watched them in silence. Once, they would have sat in their hall and servants would have performed their every command. Once, she had dressed in fine clothes, with jewels upon her fingers, and ridden her mare through the crisp mornings upon the moors.
Others had spoken jealously of the Kentons. Her father had too much, they said. He did not deserve his wealth and power, they said. Well, they would be happy now! At least he had treated the people he ruled with fairness and generosity, for all the good it had done him. Those same people had not lifted a hand to help his daughters when they had been outcast and desperate.
Jocelyn had brought food, and she and Mary were preparing a meal. Odo sat, head bowed, sunk into his own thoughts. Watching him, Briar wondered what he reflected on, so deep inside himself. Did he remember the past, and the hearty, good-natured man he had once been? Did he remember the love between him and Jocelyn, when they had wed in Normandy? They had been in York when Anna was murdered, but Odo had fallen dangerously ill—struck down as if by a lightning bolt—and there had been nothing he could do to help Briar’s
father. Jocelyn, too, had been fully occupied with her husband. At the time she had believed he would get better. He had recovered somewhat in body, although one side of his face remained distorted; it was his mind that had left him, like smoke through a hole in the thatch. Would it ever return?
Briar did not think so. Her sister may still hope, but every day Briar saw Odo growing more drawn and aged. As if the years were being sucked from him by whatever had taken his mind. She thought it would be a release for him when he died. Jocelyn would be the one to suffer; Jocelyn would be destroyed all over again.
There is danger in loving a man so completely.
Briar knew that was so, and she did not intend to give any man her heart.
Is it something you can stop from happening? Is it something you can control?
The question made her uneasy. She had never been so uncertain of herself before she met Ivo de Vessey. She had always seen her way clearly, chosen her path carefully. Now the candle she had lit—her candle of vengeance—was no longer bright enough to light her through the dark maze. She felt lost; she felt a tremendous urge to place her faith in Ivo de Vessey.
How could that be a good thing?
Ivo lifted the goblet and drank the contents down. The wine was good and he wished he could drink enough to cloud his thoughts, and to send Briar away.
From his place beside Ivo, Sweyn nodded at the room full of important men.
“They all come when Radulf calls.”
It was true, they had all come. Some to do him homage, some just to gaze on the famous King’s Sword, and others because they feared his anger if they did not. He was more hated than he was loved. Did Briar hate him? Ivo asked himself. Was that why she had meant to take him to her bed? As some sort of revenge? Or was she like so many others, wanting to possess Radulf in the hope that some of his power would come off on her.
Ivo did not think so. Briar was a woman of strong passions. When she hated, she would hate with a single-minded determination, and from what he had heard of her past, she had much reason to hate. Aye, if he were a gambling man, like Sweyn, he would bet on hatred. Ivo understood hate, he knew how it could corrode and destroy, but he was also sure that hate could be turned around. Healed. Briar had opened his heart again—surely it was for a reason?
If a man could capture her fierce heart, would she bind herself to only him?
Ivo realized that the room had fallen silent. There was a group about Radulf, but he dominated them, standing head and shoulders above them. But that wasn’t the reason for the hush. Just now Radulf did not look best pleased. A short, stout man cringed before him, as if he feared that Radulf was about to tear him limb from limb.
“My Lord Radulf.” His voice was shaky as he swept a deep bow. “My lord, I only meant, my lord, that it might be as well if Lady Lily were here, my lord. The people trust her. My lord.” The little man was clearly wishing himself anywhere but before the black stare of Radulf. “They need to know for themselves that she is hale and hearty.”
“Hale and hearty!” roared Radulf. “Why in God’s name should she not be hale and hearty? She is at Crevitch with our children. She cannot come jolting all over the country, just because some peasants think she should wipe their noses!”
The vassal stammered something completely incomprehensible, bowing so low he was almost touching his own nose on the floor. “I meant no offense, my lord,” he added in a squeak.
“Then do not speak it!”
Still bowing, the stout little man eased himself away.
“Our lord is in a quandary.” Ivo spoke quietly, not wishing Radulf to overhear him and deal him the same fate. “His lady is safer in the south, locked up at Crevitch, but without her visible presence her lands in the north will continue to seethe. And while the north hovers on the brink of war, Radulf cannot go home to her.”
Sweyn chuckled. “I see his problem. Will he send for her, do you think?”
Ivo shrugged. “If he cannot make peace soon, he may have no choice. The king will want to know what is amiss, and ’tis doubtful he will scruple to bring the lady north.”
“Women are not as fragile as we think, although it pleases some men to treat them thus.”
“Perhaps it would be better if it were the truth,” Ivo retorted. “If they said aye and nay and did what they were told, I for one would be much happier.”
Sweyn measured his friend with sparkling blue eyes. “You speak of one lady in particular?”
“Aye.” Ivo glowered.
“Is she not biddable enough for you?”
“She plays a deep game, but soon enough I will have all her secrets from her.”
“Perhaps her sister will be easier to unlock?”
As he spoke the words, Sweyn’s smile faded and he shook his head. It was as if the thought of Mary unsettled him in some way.
“What is it?” Ivo asked curiously. He had never seen Sweyn unsettled by a woman before.
“She is young, untried.” Sweyn hesitated, and then laughed at his own thoughts. “I grow strange, my friend, pay me no mind. You know that I am never serious—life is a jest, to be enjoyed and gambled upon, and women are sweetmeats to make its passing more palatable.”
But the words were spoken with an effort, and full of self-mockery. As if Sweyn made fun of himself.
“Take care, Sweyn, that you do not fall headfirst into my lady Mary’s dark eyes and drown!” He frowned. “At least she seems sweet and gentle. Her sister is a frustrating baggage. Hot tempered, stubborn…”
And just as her songs had tugged at his heart, the brave tilt of her chin made Ivo want to ride out and slay dragons for her.
“Has she told you yet what game she plays?”
Ivo shook his head. He had told Sweyn he knew that they had once been the daughters of an important man, but not who that man was. Sweyn had shrugged and said it mattered not to him, as long as Ivo did not involve him in anything treasonous. Ivo had forborne to answer, for that may well be the case.
“While I was waiting for you at the market today, Mary told me where she and her sister lived.”
“And?”
“Does the address interest you?”
“You know it does. Tell it to me, Sweyn.”
Sweyn rubbed his brow. “I have so many things to think of, I may have forgotten it. What will you give me to remember?”
Ivo glowered at him. “Tell it to me or face me tomorrow in the training yard.”
“Now I am afraid,” Sweyn mocked, ostentatiously loosening the muscles of his shoulders and rolling his arms. “I am half inclined to refuse to tell you, just so that you have to fight me for it. And you would, Ivo, we both know that.” He grinned at his friend’s angry expression. “Do not strike me down. I will tell you where your songstress lives. ’Tis a place by the river. The houses are old Viking dwellings, and they are falling down, although the one they have chosen seems sturdy enough. Still…’tis not a good place, Ivo. The staithes are closeby, and such locations are rife with cutthroats.”
Ivo shook his head in disgust, his hand clenching on the hilt of his sword. Briar, in such a place? He had the wild urge to ride there right now and bring her to safety. But he knew if he did such a thing she would refuse him, and abuse him, and enjoy doing so. Frustrated, he ground his teeth, and then a thought occurred to him. He turned to stare at his friend.
“How do you know about the state of their abode, Sweyn?”
Sweyn’s gaze slid from his.
Ivo blinked. Could there be a hint of color in the Dane’s tanned cheeks? Could Sweyn actually be blushing? Now it was Ivo’s turn to play teasing games.
“You went there, didn’t you? You wanted to see for yourself whether or not they were safe? Ah, Sweyn, what of your boast that no one woman would ever be enough for you?”
Sweyn lifted his eyes, and for once they lacked their laughing sparkle. Indeed, Sweyn looked confused, and Ivo felt almost sorry for him.
“’Tis true, Ivo. One woman would not be en
ough. That is why I cannot think of having her, I dare not think of having her. This madness will pass. I know it will pass.”
Ivo nodded with mock solemnity. “Of course it will pass, my friend. It is like a fever—you either survive it or you don’t.”
If it were possible, Sweyn appeared even more miserable.
“Ivo!”
It was a voice he knew. “Lord Henry!” Ivo turned to greet one of Radulf’s oldest and closest friends. Broad of shoulder and strikingly handsome, Henry was also the owner of a clever and diplomatic tongue, and accordingly spent most of his time at court.
“I have news for you,” Henry said to Ivo, when the greetings were done. “And you will not like it.”
“Then tell me quickly, my lord.”
“Your brother, Miles, is come to York. I saw him near Bootham Bar two days ago, but he slipped away before I could stop him.”
Miles!
For a moment Ivo couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t feel. And then it was as if a great dark cloud fell over him, taking his breath and filling him with despair. Miles, his brother, who hated him and wished him dead. Who, all his life, had given Ivo nothing but misery. The last time they had come close to meeting, Gunnar Olafson had been there to shield him from Miles’s malevolence. Now Gunnar was in the south, and Ivo was in York.
And so was Miles.
“But there is a warrant for him—he is to be arrested for his treason at Somerford.” Sweyn was speaking the words Ivo was thinking. Miles had, under Lord Fitzmorton’s orders, overtaken the manor at Somerford and threatened the overlordship of Radulf and, through him, King William himself. Lord Fitzmorton had managed to wriggle his way out of trouble, but he had used Miles as his scapegoat, blaming him for most of what had occurred.
Ivo had thought, at the time, it was convenient that Miles had vanished so completely. Fitzmorton would not want Miles de Vessey questioned, in case he told the truth about the affair. Although, if he did tell the truth, it would be the first time!
Lord Henry was speaking. “Nevertheless, warrant or no warrant, I have seen him. Lord Fitzmorton may claim all he likes that, after Miles left Somerford, he vanished from sight, but I do not believe him. Miles is too clever, too valuable for Fitzmorton to lose him entirely. And he knows too much. Fitzmorton will have sent him up here, to his lands in the north, to wait until the king can be persuaded to pardon him. ’Tis a misfortune for us all that Radulf has also come north.”